


Uncharted

by merulanoir



Series: We Name Each Other [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, M/M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16284086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: And suddenly Geralt realizes he is not the only one feeling confused about their developing friendship. They’ve known each other for a few weeks, but already there’s some part of Geralt that keeps yelling at him to not screw this up. He can’t even begin to untangle why he’s so absolutely certain this is something he can’t afford to let slip through his fingers.





	Uncharted

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to everyone who told me to go for it when I was agonizing over writing the self-indulgent modern AU with a poly twist.
> 
> All the hearts and love to my beta Dordean, who made this fic so much better than it was. <3

“Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

It takes him a while to register someone is speaking to him. When Geralt lifts his gaze, he’s met with a polite smile. A man, maybe ten years older than him, is looking at him patiently with a coffee in his hand. The cafe is crowded, which would explain why the man is talking to him. No one usually does.

“Uh, sure.” Geralt finally finds his tongue and gestures to the seat across from him. The man nods and his smile takes on an amused tinge. He sits down, and Geralt goes back to his book.

He kept telling Ciri he has no time to read books; his job takes up way too much time and he prefers to use his free time in other ways. But the girl wouldn’t let it rest; in the end she had shoved the book into his bag and threatened to quit visiting him if he didn’t give it a chance. And it’s not like Geralt could refuse Ciri anything, especially nowadays.

He’s only two chapters in. The book is supposedly some great phenomenon in the literature field. Ciri has sung its praises for weeks now. It’s a story of a young woman in a war zone. Dark and brutal, but a beacon hope, or something along those lines.

Geralt thinks it’s okay. He can definitely see why so many people are loving it. The story is compelling, and the main character is just annoying enough to feel like a real person. The author must have spent some time in a real war zone, because no normal civilian should know that much about death and fire.

“Are you enjoying the book?”

Again it takes Geralt a second too long to process he’s being addressed and he feels like an idiot.

He meets the man’s eyes over their coffee cups. They’re very dark brown, almost black. The man is looking curious and nods towards the book Geralt is holding.

“It’s quite famous. A lot of people are rather taken with it,” he clarifies when he gets no answer.

Geralt glances down at the cover. “It’s alright. I don’t really read that much, but my daughter kept heckling me until I gave up.”

The man chuckles and nods in understanding. “I see. Are you regretting that action?”

“No,” Geralt shrugs. “She was right, it’s interesting. I like how the main character is not made up to be some flawless hero.”

“Mm, my thoughts exactly,” the man smiles. “I think it’s a big part of the book’s appeal, in fact. It pulls the focus away from the horror of the war itself before it gets too tedious.”

Geralt nods before folding his arms and leaning back. “Sure. But the fact is that war’s not pretty. There’s not a lot that can really distract people from it when it’s all they have.”

He realizes he’s probably saying too much about himself to a complete stranger. It’s unwise, and not something he usually has to consciously prevent himself from doing. The man’s eyes have gone just a fraction softer, like he has noticed Geralt’s blunder too. He apparently decides it’s kinder to let it go unmentioned.

“In any case,” the man continues, “I’m maybe a bit hesitant to call it a masterpiece, but it is quite good.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll finish it, if only to get Ciri off my back,” Geralt laughs. He relaxes, despite still knowing nothing about this stranger. Something about his easy manner and soft voice puts him at ease. The almost-black eyes crinkle with a smile the man offers him in response.

Geralt glances at the clock on the wall and sees he’s lost track of time.

“Crap, I’ve got to run,” he sighs. “It was nice to chat.”

“Likewise. Good luck with the book,” the man says and gives him another warm smile. Geralt stuffs the book into his bag and gulps down the lukewarm dregs of his coffee.

Outside the early June heat hits him in the face. The after-work rush has just passed and the streets are mostly full of people walking at a leisure pace. Geralt threads his way through them, glancing at his cellphone as he walks. He had promised he’d go check out a weird noise his friend’s car has been making, and the damn artist had exactly one two-hour slot free in the course of the whole week.

There are no texts or phone calls, yet. Geralt picks up the pace and tries to avoid bumping into people who are more interested in ice cream than walking in an orderly manner. His phone chirps, and he pulls it out again as he rounds a corner.

He has just enough time to see it’s from Ciri, when someone walks straight into him. He sees a dark shape against the late afternoon sun as he stumbles on the curb and falls, hard. A hissed curse leaves his mouth as he scrapes his elbow.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

Geralt takes a quick inventory of his body and concludes nothing is broken. His elbow took the brunt of his fall, otherwise he’s just feeling like an ass.

A hand stretches to him, and he takes it. A tall, dark man helps him back to his feet and looks him over.

“Are you alright? I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says. He has very deep voice. His clear blue eyes look mortified.

“Same here,” Geralt grunts as he wipes sand off from the scraped elbow. “Guess there’s a reason they tell us not to look at phones when we’re walking.”

“You’re bleeding,” the man says as he fishes out a napkin. Geralt accepts it with a nod and presses it against the wound.

“Just a scratch. I’m fine,” he says. The man looks at Geralt for a moment and his eyes seem pained.

“Seriously, no worries,” Geralt repeats and gives him a wry smile. “It’s a good thing I was the one who went down like rock. I was on my way to crawling under a friend’s car. Not wearing my best clothes for that.”

The man glances at his own, decidedly more fancy clothes and smiles back at him. His look turns sheepish.

“Still, I really am sorry. I hope the rest of your evening goes better,” he answers.

“No hard feelings,” Geralt says. “I’ve got to run.”

“Take care,” the man nods, and then he’s gone.

Geralt shakes his head as he continues walking towards his friend’s apartment.

***

Geralt knows he has grown a bit soft after Ciri moved out. When they carried her things into the tiny attic apartment, he was feeling simultaneously fiercely proud and extremely sad. His little girl, all grown up and already building her own life.

Unfortunately, Ciri seems to have caught on to his weakened resolve, too. There really is no other reason why he’s currently standing on the sidewalk wearing a neon-colored vest that says ‘security’ and watching as the local pride parade floats by.

Ciri had brought home her first girlfriend when she had been fifteen. Geralt had lifted an eyebrow and later told her she could’ve, you know, just told him beforehand. Ciri had stuck out her tongue and told him boys were mostly gross. Geralt couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment, but secretly he was feeling just a tiny bit sad.

Ciri’s life had not started easily, and then it had become way too complicated when she’d been little. Of course he was happy his daughter was learning who she was, but the world was a cruel place. Even more so for an effectively-orphaned girl, whose only relative was a scruffy godfather who was most of the time in over his head when it came to raising a little girl.

Geralt sees Ciri and her latest girlfriend (three months, seventeen days, and counting) further away and smiles despite himself. They look so happy and young, and Geralt wishes there was something he could do to make the world just a tiny bit more gentle for them. For all of the people gathered in the parade today, in fact.

He had put up a token resistance when Ciri had informed him they needed more security personnel at the parade, but in reality he had been feeling curious. He had never been to a pride before, and this was an easy way to make himself useful. And now that he watches the people and the floats roll past, the joy seems so contagious. Despite standing at the edges and serving a function, he feels like he, too, can take part in the celebration.

Several hours later Geralt stands between two groups of people and tries to come up with a way to solve the situation without anyone getting punched.

He had heard someone screaming and his feet had taken him towards the sound with little conscious thought. He’d found a pair of young boys cornered by three thugs. Before he’d managed to formulate any sort of a plan, he’d been standing in front of the frightened boys, who had at first seemed equally afraid of him.

“Get lost,” Geralt tells the biggest of the guys. “Before anyone gets hurt.”

The man laughs. “If you wanna protect the little faggots, you can very well be the first one to lose your teeth,” he jeers and charges.

“Run,” Geralt hisses to the boys before he dodges the clumsy uppercut. He hears two pairs of feet scramble away and does his best to keep the three attackers busy enough so that they will not follow them.

He drops into the same cool, detached mode he knows so well from his past. The guys are big and they have the numbers on their side, but none of them are trained fighters. Geralt keeps up, knocks one of them to the ground and notes with distant satisfaction that he crawls away and breaks into a run.

It costs him a second.

One of the guys pulls out a folding knife. Geralt sees the steel flash and feels it rip through his shirt and into his forearm. The next seconds are a blur, but in the end the knife clatters to the ground (he has to trade it for a swift punch to temple, but ultimately it seems worth it), and the two lose their cool.

Geralt sees them turn heel and start running. He hisses as he feels the blood drip to the ground. He clamps his hand on top of the cut; it’s not deep, but it’s long, and it bleeds profusely. His head is pounding, a combination of adrenaline, dehydration, and the strike.

“Hey!”

Suddenly two men come running to him. Geralt takes a few seconds to understand why they seem so familiar, but then it clicks: the older man from the cafe, and the guy who ran into him. Both of them look worried.

“You’re hurt,” the older of them says. He makes a move to touch Geralt’s arm, who instinctively pulls back. The man lifts his hands and halts.

“Please. I’m a doctor. My name is Regis. Let me see,” he says very calmly. His eyes flick to the wound, and to the blood dripping through Geralt’s fingers. “You probably need stitches.”

Geralt exhales and offers his arm to the man called Regis. He steps closer and takes a quick look at the wound before gesturing Geralt to keep putting pressure to it. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a campaign t-shirt they gave out earlier at the parade today. “Press that into the wound,” he says and smiles.

Geralt accepts the shirt. He feels the last of the adrenaline slowly leave his body. The dark-haired man looks at him inquisitively.

“We’ve met,” he says and looks surprised. “I bumped into you a few days ago.”

“Yeah,” Geralt chuckles. “Not the best circumstances this time around, either.”

The man smiles wryly. “My name is Dettlaff. I’d say I’m pleased to meet you, but...” he trails off, and Geralt decides he likes the guy’s blunt humor.

“Geralt,” he offers back. “Pleasure’s all mine and all that.”

The doctor, Regis, makes an amused sound before sobering up. “We need to get you cleaned up, Geralt.”

Geralt groans. “The emergency room on a June Saturday night. Great.” He’s usually the one who takes people there, and he knows how crowded the underfunded place can get.

Regis huffs a laugh, clearly following his trail of thought. “If you wish, I can stitch your wound. We live close by, and I have the basic supplies there.”

Geralt blinks and then he sighs in relief as he decides to trust Regis this much. “That’d be great. If I go to the ER, they’ll keep me hanging until morning on account of my arm being still attached to the rest of my body,” he says, drawing a laugh from both Regis and Dettlaff.

The walk takes them only five minutes, during which Geralt learns that Regis works and teaches at the local university hospital. He had started there three years ago, and is enjoying the work very much. Geralt asks some questions, but mostly he ends up listening. Regis talks calmly and his voice has the same soothing quality as it did back at the cafe.

When Dettlaff digs out keys in a stairway Geralt’s brain catches up to what was said earlier. Regis had told him ‘they’ lived close by, and Geralt connects the dots between that and him having the parade’s promotional shirt on hand. Somehow it makes sense, he thinks, as he watches the two of them navigate their apartment.

Dettlaff directs him to sit down in the kitchen and keeps him company as Regis goes to the bathroom to rummage through their medicine cabinet.

“You looked like you knew what you were doing back there,” Dettlaff remarks as Geralt keeps pushing the shirt against the wound. Geralt looks up, but the man doesn’t seem bothered. His pale eyes look curious, and the warm glow of the lamp catches the first silver strands in his dark hair. “I’m not judging, merely observing,” he adds as he goes to the freezer and finds and ice pack. He wraps it into a towel and gestures to Geralt’s head. Geralt huffs a breath and makes a ‘go for it’ gesture with his elbow to indicate he’s got his own hands full. Dettlaff presses the cold wad to his bruised temple.

“Yeah. It’s kind of my job,” Geralt says. Dettlaff’s eyebrows rise in question just as Regis comes back. He deposits the supplies on the table and pulls up a chair. His knee nudges Geralt’s as he gently pulls the injured arm towards himself.

“Let’s see,” he hums. He lays a towel on the table and then carefully peels the shirt off. Thanks to the pressure, the bleeding has slowed significantly, and Regis makes a satisfied face. He pulls out a bottle of antiseptic and a wad of cotton.

“I don’t have anything to dull the pain, I’m afraid,” he says apologetically.

Geralt shrugs as he takes the ice pack from Dettlaff and continues holding it against his abused temple. “No offense, but I wouldn’t let you stick a syringe into me even if you did.”

Regis smiles and nods. “I overheard what you told Dettlaff, so I guessed as much. Are you a police officer?”

“Yes. Been working for the force for twelve years this fall.”

What he doesn’t tell is that it’s almost exactly as long as he’d had Ciri in his life. Or that before that he had rarely been at home. It doesn’t need to be said.

“You intervened with little thought to your own safety,” Dettlaff says. “You couldn’t know if those three were armed.”

Geralt bites his lip as Regis swipes the wound with antiseptic. “True. But if I hadn’t, those two boys would’ve most likely ended up in a hospital.”

“I am not critiquing. Just curious,” Dettlaff says gently. “It’s unusual.”

Geralt shrugs again and earns an admonishing scowl from Regis, who is just about to start suturing the wound back together. “As I said. Part of my job,” he says noncommittally.

A short silence follows, during which Geralt tries not to wince as the needle starts its work. Regis works swiftly and with calm hands. His black eyes are narrowed, and his knee presses against Geralt’s again as he concentrates. The contact grounds him.

“What about you?” he asks Dettlaff after a while. “Are you in medical field as well?”

Dettlaff laughs. “God forbid, no. I work at the university.”

“The one up the hill?” Geralt asks, and the man nods.

“I’m an English professor,” he clarifies. “I’m afraid not all of our present company have equally heroic professions.”

“My daughter would disagree,” Geralt muses. “She started studying last year and I’m kinda worried how much she loves international politics and all the academic stuff.”

Dettlaff’s mouth quirks up. “How old is she?”

“Just turned twenty a few weeks ago,” Geralt tells him. A thought occurs to him. “You must’ve been the one who recommended the war book to Regis,” he tells Dettlaff. He hears the doctor chuckle as he works.

“Indeed. Dettlaff was positive I’d come to like it as much as he does,” Regis says as he pulls the last stitch through. Dettlaff gives him a fond smile, and something about it tells Geralt they really love each other a lot.

“There,” Regis says as he wraps the wound up. “All better. Would you care for a beer, Geralt? I’m afraid your festival had a rather unpleasant ending.”

Geralt accepts the beer. “I was security, actually.”

Regis nods in understanding as he sits back down. “Then I’d say you more than completed your job.”

They end up talking late. If someone had introduced Geralt to Regis and Dettlaff and told only the bare details about them, he would’ve never felt compelled to know them. As things stand, he finds himself enjoying their company. Regis is kind and talkative, whereas Dettlaff seems reserved and honest. Both of them are clearly very intelligent, yet they never make him feel even slightly stupid.

Finally, when Geralt notices it’s almost midnight he stands up and stretches cautiously.

“Guess I’ll head home. Thank you for the help,” he says and smiles. He’s had a nice night, in the end. Some part of him wants to ask whether they could meet again sometime; maybe Ciri is right, maybe he is a bit lonely.

Dettlaff comes around the table and shakes his hand. His grip is warm and steady.

“It was nice to meet you properly,” he says with another wry smile, and Geralt laughs.

“Yeah. Although I do seem to get kicked around when we meet.”

Regis shakes his hand as well. “It would be nice to see you again,” he suddenly says. “The stitches can come out in a week, I’d say. Would you like to come and have dinner then?”

Geralt blinks and then he smiles wider.

“Sure.”

***

A week passes with nothing unusual. Geralt manages to dodge questions about how he acquired the newest wound by claiming he had screwed something up in the garage. Only Lambert looks like he knows Geralt’s full of shit, but he seems happy to play along for the time being. Geralt has no delusions he will be subjected to a ruthless interrogation the next time they go out for beers.

Geralt had exchanged numbers with both Regis and Dettlaff. He’s not one for texting, but when he finishes Ciri’s book and is left with more questions than answers, he can’t resist sending both of them a message about it.

_**From: Geralt** _

_**To: Dettlaff, Regis** _

_Finished the damn book, just so you know. I expect both of you to explain the ending to me, seeing as I understood next to nothing about it._

_**Regis:** I am happy to hear that and yes, I expect you will be subjected to a lengthy literary discussion on Saturday. I can sympathize with your feelings concerning the ending. _

_**Dettlaff:** Oh, that’s fascinating.  Regis voiced some similar grievances when he finished the book. I’m glad to talk about it, and if Regis tells you I have a tendency to get unhealthily excited about literature, he’s probably right. _

Geralt chuckles out loud when he reads their answers. He’s actually looking forward to the dinner, despite having to sit through removing the stitches. At least the wound has healed nicely; if it wasn’t evident Regis was very good at what he does, it would be by now.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Eskel asks him when they are changing out of their work uniforms and getting ready to forget the paperwork for a couple of days.

“Nothing much. Meeting friends tomorrow and some garage stuff on Sunday,” Geralt answers.

“Friends? You?” Lambert snipes from his locker, grinning. “Since when have you been social?”

Geralt flips his friend off and rolls his eyes. “Just ‘cause I don’t want to look at your ugly mug on my free time doesn’t mean I don’t have a social life.”

“Yeah, yeah, anyone told you arguing with your crazy ex over the phone doesn’t count as social life?” Lambert asks, and Eskel throws his sweaty and frankly toxic-smelling socks at him. Lambert dodges with a disgusted yelp and retaliates by spraying them both with his deodorant.

“Fuck you, Lambert,” Geralt tells him jovially as they exit the building and he locks the doors behind them.

“You too, man. Call me if you need a shoulder to cry on,” Lambert calls back as he jogs towards his car. Geralt rolls his eyes again, knowing full well his friend is on his way to meet the one woman who manages to be even more of an asshole than Lambert. He thinks they’re made for each other.

Eskel walks with him to his car. They have parked next to each other for years now, on account of knowing neither of them will never bump into their friend’s car by accident.

“Wanna go grab a beer later?” Eskel asks as he unlocks the doors and throws his backpack in the general direction of the backseat.

“Can’t, sorry. Ciri’s coming over today,” Geralt tells him.

Eskel smiles. “How’s the brat doing?”

“Fine. She’s working at the university library for the summer and taking some extra classes. God knows how she finds the time and energy.”

“She still going out with that girl? Lara?”

Geralt laughs. “Lara’s been over and done with for months already. The newest one is called Anna.”

Eskel chuckles. “Good to know someone’s doing fine on that front.”

“Tell me about it,” Geralt sighs.

Eskel’s words echo through his head as he drives home. It’s not like he has a lot of time for romantic stuff, what with his job and all, but it still stings a little. There’s been no one serious since he and Yen finally broke up for good, and that was over three years ago.

Thinking about Yen always manages to make Geralt both angry and morose, so he quickly tries to steer his thoughts  towards something less unpleasant .  He thinks about Ciri, and how happy she seems with her life right now. Compared to a few years ago, both of their lives are actually looking hell of a lot better.

C iri breezes  in  over half an hour late and grinning like she knows she won’t be called out on it. Geralt, who knows her timekeeping habits perfectly well, simply pulls out the lasagna from the oven where he’d stashed the dish to keep it warm, and hugs her tight. The evening passes quickly. Ciri tries to explain the book to him, with little success, and keeps pestering him about his love life and tells him his life is getting wasted as a normal cop. Geralt rolls his eyes at her and tells her to keep her nose out of his business.

It’s familiar and absolutely great.

At five the next afternoon he rings the doorbell at Regis’ and Dettlaff’s apartment. He’s somehow managed to get nervous, despite knowing he gets along with both of them. Somehow anything that breaks the routine has become so rare even little things manage to do this to him, and how fucking sad is that?

Regis open the door and smiles at him.

“Welcome,” he says and ushers him inside. “I was just telling Dettlaff you’re likely be on time.”

“Based on what?” he grins as he gives Regis the wine bottle he bought on a whim. “Here. Figured it’s only fair to bribe you a little for stitching me back together.”

“Why, thank you Geralt,” Regis laughs. “I presumed you’re usually in time because of your profession. A gross generalization, but it won me this round.”

Geralt laughs. He forgets his unease as he follows Regis into the kitchen. Dettlaff nods at him from where he is peering into a pot on the stove.

“Nice to see you again. I trust Regis already told you all about his uncanny knowledge of the human psyche?” he says in greeting.

“That and much more,” Geralt tells him, earning a wry grin from Dettlaff and an amused huff from Regis. The latter then pushes him gently into a chair and sets to unwrapping the gauze from around the wound.

“It’s looking good,” Dettlaff observes.

Geralt nods. “Yeah. I figured it was a risk letting a stranger treat me, but for once it seems like it paid off. I’ve had a hell of a lot worse scars from much smaller cuts.”

Regis looks at him curiously, but doesn’t pry. He feels the cut for any inflammation and then starts to cut the stitches away. Geralt feels age-old tension trying to coil into his muscles, and he forces himself to let it go. The doctor glances at him, but still holds his silence. Regis’ hands are sure and warm as he works, his brow furrowed minutely.

After the wound is treated and declared all right, Dettlaff sets the table and they eat. He had prepared  a curry dish and he serves it with rice and naan bread. Geralt can immediately tell the man knows what he’s doing in the kitchen.

“This is really good,” he tell him.

Dettlaff smiles, pleased. “Thanks. It’s not too spicy?”

Geralt shakes his head. He’d had ample chance to get used to spicy foods, and this doesn’t even register on his scale. “Not at all. You cook a lot?”

“He does,” Regis confirms. “He likes to make sure I eat something else besides what passes for food at the hospital.”

Dettlaff scoffs. “If you can call it that.”

“Hey, plenty of us mortals can’t complain about cafeteria stuff,” Geralt says. He turns to Regis. “You said something about teaching alongside working as a surgeon?”

Regis nods and takes a sip of wine. “I split my time between giving lectures and doing the usual medical work. It’s tedious, but I enjoy teaching too much to give it up.”

“How did you end up doing it?” Geralt asks, intrigued. Regis is nothing like other doctors he’s met thus far.

“Funny story, actually. A colleague of mine broke her foot some five years ago and had to take a long sick leave. The faculty was at a loss finding a replacement for her, and then a person who, uh, disliked me immensely told the supervisor that my workload seems light enough to take on a few courses,” Regis tells him. He looks amused. “I agreed, just to spite that person, and then discovered I actually had a talent for the educational side. At the end of the semester my colleague returned from her medical leave and was all too glad to let me continue teaching alongside herself.”

“And then you just kept doing it?” Geralt asks.

“That’s the long and short of it. I had already done my doctorate, so it was only some paperwork to make me a real teacher.”

“And the person who thought they had made your life miserable is still somewhat bitter about how it all turned out,” Dettlaff adds, smiling smugly. Geralt laughs again.

“What about you, Geralt? What can you tell about yourself?” Regis asks him in turn. His smile is still kind, but the same curiosity hides just underneath the surface.

Geralt waits for his walls to come back up as they always do, but nothing happens. He chews slowly to buy himself some time, and is surprised to discover he’s still feeling good. Usually when people get nosy, he clams up.

“Well, you know I’m a cop,” he finally says. “I’ll be forty-one next January. I have a daughter whose name is Cirilla, Ciri for short.”

Dettlaff regards him over his glass of wine. His eyes seem almost uncanny, they’re so pale shade of blue. “Hm, we’re almost the same age then,” he muses. “Do you have a partner?”

Geralt purses his lips and knows the expression doesn’t go unnoticed. “Had. Didn’t work out.”

“But you still had a child,” Regis says gently, and crap, how does he explain the tangle that is their family?

Geralt drinks some of his wine and tries to find the words to explain. He sees Regis’ expression sober.

“I’m sorry,” the man finally says and brushes his hand against his shoulder. “I’m prying.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt sighs. “It’s just bloody complicated. Me and Ciri, we’re not actually related. I’m her godfather.” He gives Regis a dry smile. “And while my ex is like a mother to her, we never really excelled as parents.”

Regis nods and his hand withdraws. Only then Geralt registers he must be the first person to touch him without making him recoil.

“But enough about my shoddy luck with romance,” Geralt says, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m actually curious how you two have met, in turn.”

Dettlaff smiles wider than before. He and Regis exchange a glance, and Geralt can see there’s some mutual joke passing unsaid.

“We met at another university eight years ago. I was doing research there at the time, and Dettlaff was just finishing his doctorate,” Regis says. “He decided I was fascinating and managed to corner me frequently enough to talk me into having dinner with him. I was terribly shy back then.”

Geralt laughs. “No offense, but I find that hard to believe.”

Regis looks down and smiles, shrugging. “It’s the truth. Dettlaff spent the better part of a year dragging me out of my shell, and even after that we had something of a rocky start.”

Dettlaff leans forward and leans his chin on his hand. “Entirely worth the wait, I figure. The biggest hassle seemed to be the fact that Regis thought him being ten years older than me was an insurmountable obstacle,” he says calmly, his smile confident and a bit teasing.

Geralt can’t tear his eyes away from the two of them. They seem so utterly comfortable together, entirely unbothered to tell how they had fallen in love.

“That’s actually kind of amazing,” he says. “And you’ve been together ever since?”

Regis nods. “We like to keep it quiet, because the general attitude is still somewhat stilted in this country. But we’ve managed quite nicely.”

“Seems much better than my previous attempts at relationships, to be honest,” Geralt shrugs. “I know people have some fucked up attitudes, but it’s been changing.”

“It has,” Dettlaff agrees. “And I think our relationship works because we’re both chronically honest with ourselves and each other.”

“What about free time?” Geralt asks. “Do you have any hobbies?”

Dettlaff’s eyes brighten a bit. “I do. Regis is married to his work.”

“That’s hardly true,” Regis mutters, but he’s suppressing a smile. “Dettlaff is also chronically interested in everything.”

“Everything?” Geralt asks, and Dettlaff grins and rubs his neck.

“I play the piano. I also like to sketch and paint, when I have the time.”

“Wow,” Geralt says. “I just fix cars. You two make me feel like some uneducated peasant.” He says it in jest, but the words cause Regis to frown.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, and something in his tone suggests he’s actually worried he’s coming off as arrogant. Geralt blinks and then he smiles, lifting his hand reassuringly.

“I’m just kidding. I’m not used to hanging around educated people.”

Dettlaff’s mouth quirks up. “What kind of cars do you fix?”

“Anything, really. I have a trade name, but I mostly do it as a hobby. Friends’ cars and stuff like that.” Geralt pauses. “I’m guessing you don’t have a car, since you live in the city center?”

Regis shakes his head. “We do, actually, but neither of us can so much as check the oil. We mostly have it for work-related travels and such.”

“Do you travel a lot, then?”

“I have conferences a few times a year,” Dettlaff explains. “Regis sometimes gives guest lectures in other university hospitals, as his research fits nicely in the current curriculum.”

Geralt leans back in his chair, absorbing it all. “Your life is completely different from mine,” he observes. “It sounds interesting. And very...sophisticated?”

“The academia isn’t as removed from the reality as many would think,” Dettlaff says with a faint smile. “Most of the young people I educate wound up having so-called real jobs. It’s only a fraction who find themselves doing research and completing their Masters’ degree.”

“Still,” Geralt says, “I’ve never known anyone who had a university degree, let alone doctorate.”

“And now you find yourself in the company of two such persons,” Regis completed his sentence. “Don’t worry about it, Geralt. As far as I can tell, you’re very intelligent. Formal education is not the only path to having a fascinating inner life. Sometimes it almost feels like it’s the exact opposite, to be honest.”

Geralt laughs at that, and some of the worry inside his chest eases. He keeps feeling like any moment now Regis and Dettlaff will realize he’s not that smart and subsequently kick him out. For some reason he can’t yet understand it feels like something he wants to avoid at all costs.

And as the evening progresses, the tightness keeps slipping away, until Geralt’s laughs are genuine and his smile grows wider. He keeps comparing it to meeting new people in the past, but nothing matches. Regis and Dettlaff gradually draw him out from his shell, and for once it doesn’t leave him feeling like he’s making a mistake by deciding to trust.

***

Monday rolls around, and Geralt feels almost happy when he clocks in. He got to work on his own projects on Sunday, and the dinner put him in a good mood. It was so out of his normal routine that it served to open his eyes to the fact that he doesn’t really have friends outside work. He’s known Eskel and Lambert for ages, of course, but he sees them all the time.

No, getting to know Regis and Dettlaff was new and fun, and he keeps hoping they’ll meet again. He ended up spending the whole evening with them, and when he left, he was feeling content. Since Dettlaff borrowed him a new book – something he promised has a less cryptic ending – it seems like the feeling is mutual.

Geralt can’t decipher what it is about them that puts him so at ease. He’s normally guarded when in the company of strangers, but some instinct just keeps murmuring the two guys are okay. He is not ready to abandon all his caution (he never is), but he can’t help feeling hopeful.

The week rolls by like any other, and the only thing of any interest is that Lambert and Keira have broken up for the fifth time, which means Lambert is in a real mood by Thursday when Keira doesn’t answer his texts. Geralt is very much done with the whole affair, but he can’t help feeling sympathetic; Lambert and Eskel watched him and Yen do the same dance for years.

The book Dettlaff gave him is absorbing like few others he has ever read. It’s basically a love story, but set in an alternative universe that’s all kinds of twisted and dystopian. Geralt finds himself liking the set up immensely and is delighted to learn it’s actually the first book in a long series. He even takes it with him to work to continue reading on his lunch breaks. This earns him lifted eyebrows from his colleagues, but they all lose interest when he glares at them.

His phone rings as he’s changing clothes. He’s surprised to see it’s Dettlaff. They had exchanged some messages about the book after Geralt realized he was actually liking reading for the first time in his life, but he didn’t expect the man to call him.

“Hello?”

“Hi Geralt, it’s Dettlaff,” the familiar voice greets him.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Dettlaff clears his throat awkwardly. “I realize this might seem a bit rude, as we don’t know each other very well, but you do remember Regis mentioning our car?”

Geralt suppresses a smile as he ties his shoelaces. “Yeah. Something wrong with it?”

“It is making a frankly horrible noise when I start it up. I’m supposed to attend a conference this weekend, and if I cannot drive, I need to start making some quick arrangements for transport. I thought I’d ask you first, though,” Dettlaff tells him, and he actually sounds nervous about calling for help. Geralt feels a stab of amused affection, and then pushes the feeling aside.

“What kind of a noise? Like squealing?” he asks.

“Yeah. High-pitched,” comes the answer.

Geralt hmms. “Most likely your drive belt’s loose. Nothing major, but it should be checked to make sure it doesn’t break.”

“Damn,” Dettlaff sighs. “I’m guessing it’s not something that I can safely ignore until the trip’s done.”

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt confirms. “If it breaks, it will most likely wreck the generator, possibly damage the pulleys.”

“You do realize I have no idea what you’re saying?” Dettlaff says, and Geralt hears he is smiling.

“Tell you what,” he answers, his own smile tugging at his lips. “Come over in half an hour if you’re not busy, and I’ll show you how to fix it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I have nothing to do this evening, and the last customer car left yesterday,” Geralt shrugs as he closes his locker door. “I won’t charge you anything.”

“That doesn’t sound fair.”

“You can feed me again after you come back,” he grins, and the answering laugh makes him smile wider.

Less than an hour later he’s opening the garage door just as Dettlaff pulls into the yard. He’s been renting the same small garage hall for ten years from a friend of a friend, and it’s like a second home to him. He always comes here when he’s bored, upset, or the nightmares get too bad. It’s nothing fancy, but he has decorated it enough to make the space feel like it has some soul. Photos, old posters, a few vintage tools mounted on a small shelf; Ciri calls it hipster, but Geralt thinks the place looks a lot like himself.

“So this is the culprit,” Geralt says as Dettlaff backs the car inside and kills the engine. It’s a ‘97 Corolla that looks like it’s seen some shit.

“How long have you had this car?” Geralt asks.

Dettlaff frowns as he thinks. “Five years, I think. I bought it because a friend of mine was getting rid of  it and it seemed like a good opportunity. It  ha s worked fine so far.”

“Have you done any maintenance?”

“Myself, obviously not. But I did get it looked over last year,” the man shrugs.

Geralt nods and pulls his h ai r into a ponytail. He fishes out the service booklet and notes with satisfaction that almost all scheduled servicing has been carried out.

“You had your timing belt changed then, it seems,” he mutters. “Too bad you bought a ‘97 model.”

“How come?” Dettlaff asks. He leans against the car and looks almost apprehensive. Geralt chuckles.

“After 1998 Toyota replaced the belts with chains. One less replacement to worry about,” he says and goes to take the key from ignition. He pulls the lever and hears the satisfying _clunk_ that tells him the engine bonnet opens like it should.

“Alright, let’s see what your pet has on offer,” he says as he opens the hood and unhooks the battery cable. He’s aware of Dettlaff trailing after him and watching with interest as he fiddles with the alternator and the belt. A minute’s inspection tells him he was right.

“See this belt here?” he says and gestures towards it. “It’s the drive belt. Simply put, it works the alternator and the power steering.” He runs his fingers along the belt and then pushes it down a bit. “It’s loose, like I thought. We can tighten it now, and switch in a new one when you get back.”

“Is that hard?” Dettlaff asks and peers at the belt. He keeps looking at his car like it’s some sort of a wild animal that might bite him if he gets too close.

“No,” Geralt says. “We loosen three bolts, move the alternator, and tighten the bolts again.”

He retrieves the necessary tools and throws his flannel shirt on the table.  Then he pushes the ratchet into the tight pit and loosens the bolts. Dettlaff watches with interest. When he’s done, he jostles the alternator a bit to demonstrate how it affects the belt.

“Now we can just use a piece of wood to pry the alternator in place,” he says. Dettlaff nods and retrieves a piece of board that he notices laying on the table. Geralt accepts it and then twists the alternator in its new place.

“Now we just tighten the bolts again,” he says. He’s about to reach for the ratchet, when Dettlaff takes it and pushes it into place. “No point in you getting your hands dirty,” he says, but the man only continues working.

“Doesn’t matter. Seems like it’s the least I can do,” he smiles as he finishes the first bolt and moves on to the next. Geralt shrugs and lets him continue.

Dettlaff’s phone rings just when they finish. He fishes the phone out from his pocket and smiles.

“Hello, Regis.”

Geralt grins at Dettlaff and lets the hood fall closed.

“I’m actually at Geralt’s garage. The car started making a funny noise.”

“Yes, he fixed it in two minutes. We’ll replace the part next week.”

“I know. He refused. I just promised we’d feed him again.”

Geralt chuckles to himself when he returns the tools to their places. Dettlaff ends the call and sighs good-naturedly.

“Thank you so much. It’s much easier for me to get to the conference by car,” he says and rubs his forehead. He leaves a dark smudge there, and Geralt grins wider.

“No problem. I’ll get the spare belt for you and we’ll switch it next week when you have the time.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Dettlaff says. He looks less worried now.

“It isn’t,” Geralt smiles. He hands Dettlaff a piece of tissue and the man looks at him in question. “You have some dirt on your face,” he explains. Dettlaff peers into the car’s side mirror and makes a face.

“Regis would’ve let me walk around with this,” he mutters as he wipes the smudge off.

Geralt smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time,” he says and Dettlaff rolls his eyes.

His phone chirps just as Dettlaff waves at him and drives off. Geralt looks at the screen and sees it’s from Regis.

_**Regis:** I beg you, Geralt, when you replace the part you simply have to take a photo if you manage to get Dettlaff to help. I have never seen the man get his hands dirty. _

Geralt laughs out loud as he switches the lights off and heads to his own car.

_**Geralt:** Will do. Or you can just come and join us. _

_**Regis:** I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your help, we will see about the food soon. _

_**Geralt:** Seriously, it was no trouble. The whole thing took me about five minutes and I had nothing planned for the evening anyway. You can consider it a thank you for sewing my arm back together. _

_**Regis:** It would seem we’re making mutually useful friends. _

Geralt smiles as he drives home. The word ‘friend’ rattles around in his brain, and he decides it’s good. He is growing to like both Regis and Dettlaff, and the possibility that they might become a permanent fixture in his life feels like something precious. There has been little good news going around as it is, and making new friends who make him feel like a regular human being is desperately needed.

They do fix the drive belt together next week. Regis joins Geralt and Dettlaff at the garage, but he seems content to sit back and watch as Geralt walks his partner through the process. The whole thing takes a bit longer that way, but it’s fun; Dettlaff is interested in learning how the car works, and when Geralt asks about it, he bites his lip before answering.

“I googled it,” he says and ignores Regis’ smirk from the bench. “It started to bother me I own a car and know nothing about it, so I googled some basic maintenance stuff.” He seems almost embarrassed.

Geralt laughs and nudges his shoulder reassuringly. “Hey, I’m the last person who’ll judge you for that. I basically live here as it is.”

“Why are you not working as a mechanic?” Regis asks as he ambles to the car and peers into its depths.

Geralt shrugs. “I like my current job and have no formal training as a mechanic. Plus, setting up a shop is a lot of work, and newer cars have so much electronics in them I’d need a ton of expensive equipment.” He gestures around the garage. “This way I can choose my customers and just quit if I don’t feel like doing it. I mostly get friends and their friends here.”

Regis nods thoughtfully. “This place looks like you’ve put in a lot of work to make it cozy.”

“True. I’m a little set in my ways,” Geralt says. He has a turntable and all his old LP’s here, plus some old photos tacked to the back wall where he keeps a small fridge and a wreck of a sofa.

Geralt closes the hood and tosses the old belt into the bin.

“You guys want a beer?” he asks as he walks to the sink and washes his hands. Both of them thank him, and when he turns around he sees Regis looking at the photos with interest.

There are a number of them with him and Ciri, most of them taken years ago. Her high school graduation picture is the only one he had actually bothered to frame, and Ciri had expressed her dislike of the portrait by drawing a mustache on her face with a permanent marker. Geralt sees Regis’ eyebrow lift and an amused grin work its way to his face.

“This must be Ciri,” he says and gestures to the photos with laughing eyes.

Geralt nods as he opens the fridge and takes out three cans. “Yeah. As you can see, she’s almost as classy as I am.”

Dettlaff finishes scrubbing his hands and joins them to look at the photos. Geralt sees his eyes move over the newer ones and find the oldest one at the edge. It’s a bit yellow around the edges and one corner is torn, but it’s the one he likes best, aside from the ones with Ciri.

Dettlaff frowns as he takes in the four men standing with their arms around each other. They are all dressed up in fatigues, and even though the colors have faded, desert heat seems to radiate from the picture. Geralt swallows as he sees Regis turn his head and peer at it too. He puts the beers down on the small table and rubs his neck, waiting for the inevitable questions.

“Is this you?” Dettlaff finally asks and turns his gaze to Geralt. He’s pointing at the guy to the right. Geralt looks at the photo, and sees himself twenty years ago, without the scar that cuts his eyebrow in half, his right arm around Eskel’s neck, and grinning like a prick.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

Regis looks at him, and there’s a soft sort of understanding in his dark eyes. He looks back at the photo. “Are these your friends?”

Geralt steps closer and points them out. “The guy next to me is Eskel. Then there’s Lambert next to him, and on the left is our troop leader, Vesemir.”

“You’re ex-military, then,” Regis says. Geralt nods, and he’s surprised when there’s no judgment in the doctor’s voice. A lot of people dislike career soldiers, some on principle and some simply because they remind people of the uglier parts of life. Regis simply smiles at the photo before picking up his beer and sitting down on a bench. Dettlaff goes for the sofa, and Geralt laughs out loud when he sinks almost all the way to the floor.

“Sorry, I forgot to warn you. That old thing’s a bit abused,” he says. Dettlaff quirks an eyebrow as he attempts to find a comfortable position. Once he comes to the inevitable conclusion that the task is next to impossible, he sighs and cracks open the can.

“Did you leave the military because of your daughter?” Dettlaff asks after a short silence. Regis glances at him and frowns, and Geralt is guessing the doctor is disapproving of his partner’s bluntness.

He doesn’t mind it, he finds. It’s almost refreshing compared to how people skirt around the questions and try to pry details about his past without ever just _asking_.

“Yes,” he nods and takes a swig of beer. “Her father and I used to be friends a long, long time ago. When things fell through, I was left with the choice to let the social services take Ciri or find a normal job and take care of her.”

He sees both of them look surprised at his straight answer. He gives them a wan smile. “Nobody usually just asks. Everybody just assumes all sort of stuff about me. But that’s how it went. I came home, took her in, and then completed the school to become a cop as fast as I could.”

“It must’ve been hard,” Regis says quietly. Geralt simply nods.

He’s never told anyone how fucking lost he felt for the first few years, how tight money was, and how much Ciri missed her parents. A few people have asked, but he’s never found the courage to let it all spill out. Now he feels like there might be some possible future where he could imagine telling Regis and Dettlaff about those years too.

“It was,” he finally says and then he smiles. “But we managed, and Ciri’s grown up fine.”

“It would be nice to meet her someday,” Regis says. He seems to realize what he said a second later and a faint blush colors his cheeks as he looks at the floor and takes a sip of his beer.

And suddenly Geralt realizes he is not the only one feeling confused about their developing friendship. They’ve known each other for a few weeks, but already there’s some part of Geralt that keeps yelling at him to not screw this up. He can’t even begin to untangle why he’s so absolutely certain this is something he can’t afford to let slip through his fingers.

“I’m sure she’d have a lot to talk with you guys,” he says instead of wallowing in the warm, happy feeling that starts blooming inside his chest. “She reads a lot. She’s majoring in international relations.”

Regis lifts his gaze and smiles at him, and Geralt feels the warmth grow stronger.

***

The summer slips by. Geralt gets sucked into a drug investigation that swallows him whole and then spits him out at the tail end of August. He takes two weeks off and loiters around the garage, not really knowing what to do with himself now that Ciri is no longer living with him.

He finishes the book series Dettlaff introduced him to and spends an entire evening in a heated debate with him about whether the protagonist deserved to live, and is once dragged into a museum with Regis who complains that Dettlaff doesn’t find natural history interesting enough to accompany him for the fifteenth time. The exhibition about marine fossils is interesting, but what makes it truly fascinating is Regis’ calm voice recounting to him obscure details about the petrified animals and insects.

And during that time they slowly integrate each other into their respective lives. Geralt learns that Dettlaff grows quiet and brooding when he’s untangling work-related thoughts, and that Regis has a habit of forgetting to eat when he’s busy at work. The two men, in turn, learn that Geralt likes having them around when he works with cars, but that he needs ample chance to isolate himself, too. Gradually their coexistence becomes effortless, and by August Geralt notices he’s started planning his weeks so that he has free time to meet with his friends.

Geralt continues feeling surprised Regis and Dettlaff both wanted to keep spending time with him. He didn’t understand why he kept feeling so content when one of them called or sent a message inquiring whether he wanted to meet. He expected at least that either one would become closer to him, but there’s no distinction; both of them keep liking him, and he keeps liking both of them equally as much.

When September rolls around, Ciri starts school again and Geralt’s workload picks up. The beginning of busier weeks coincides with both Dettlaff and Regis traveling away. The former has another conference abroad, and Regis decides to join him to have a chance to take a small holiday before his lecture courses start again. Geralt drives them to the airport, and as he watches them wave at him from the security check, he feels a curious twinge in his gut.

As he drives home he tries to understand why his chest is feeling tight all of a sudden. He keeps the speed even and listens to the classic rock station, trying to draw his mind back into the chance of buying a real 1970 Plymouth Road Runner from an acquaintance. The car has been in his scope for a few years, and he should be excited about the mere possibility that the owner is finally considering parting with it. Instead, he keeps feeling listless.

As he pulls over at the garage and flicks the lights on, he finally admits to himself that the thought of spending two weeks without seeing Regis or Dettlaff is making him moody. There hadn’t been more than three days without them meeting since July, and Geralt sighs as he sinks down on to the sofa.

He has grown used to having either or both of them around much quicker than he’d anticipated. It was comforting and exciting at the same time. Their coexistence was easy in a way few things had ever been. Of course he’d always known Eskel and even Lambert were willing to hang out with him, but neither of them managed to stir up the same kind of happiness in him as Regis and Dettlaff did. It worried him, but he didn’t know why.

Finally, when he admitted to himself he wasn’t going to get any work done today, he headed home and concluded he was simply afraid of losing the newfound joy. They were learning to trust one another; Geralt couldn’t boast he had many people who knew even that much about him, even if he had determined he’d keep the darker aspects of his past hidden for the time being. It wasn’t a perfect explanation, but it would have to do. Two weeks was a short time, in the end, and he’d manage on his own.

_**Regis:** Greetings fr om the far south. The city is beautiful and, unlike Dettlaff, I’m not bound to a stuffy lecture hall for hours on end. Although I would prefer exploring the city with some company, this is a very fine place for a holiday. I hope you’re not overworking yourself (at the station or at the garage). I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the latest book. _

_**Dettlaff:** The conference is every bit as good as I remember telling you (and Regis calling  my excitement “gushing” is still a gross hyperbole), but I must say the local air conditioning standards are not as high as I had hoped.  However, I admit I miss your dry wit concerning the high-brow habits of academics. After spending more time with you, I’ve come to appreciate the irony. _

He gets photos, too. Regis sends him snapshots of the sights he’s seeing, and explains the local history to him. Dettlaff sens a picture of them both at some scenic vantage point over the city, and the thought of the two taking a selfie and then sending it to him makes Geralt smile fondly at his phone when he opens the message at lunch break.

“So, who’s the lucky girl?” A voice interrupts him and he blinks as he turns the screen off. A woman with auburn hair and blue eyes is peering at him, her mouth set into a teasing smile. It takes him a few seconds to remember she is the new district attorney.

“Uh, no girl,” he says. “Just a text from a friend.”

“Uh huh,” she says, her eyes narrowing a bit. “You’re Geralt, right? Your captain told me you handled the Johnson drug investigation last month.”

“That’s me, yeah.” Geralt racks his brain for her name, but draws a blank. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I remember your name,” he says sheepishly.

“Anna Lemaire, at your service.” She mocks a short bow and then shakes his hand. “So, I’m supposed to wheedle the Johnson files from you, but might I interest you in a cup of coffee at the charming lobby as well? I hear the vending machine has some really stale espresso this time of the year.”

“Sure,” he chuckles. Anna grins at him, and once they sit down with paper cups of horrible coffee, she pins him down with her sharp eyes.

“I’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors about your unit,” she tells him. Geralt makes a noncommittal sound, curious to see where this is going. He’s already liking Anna, but something about her makes him also wary.

She takes a sip of coffee and Geralt mentally applauds her for not grimacing.

“Everybody who is not completely demented knows you and your buddies share some interesting history,” she eventually continues. “It’s all in the files, and those can be accessed by anyone with the basic HR clearance.”

Geralt shrugs. He knows what she’s talking about, but it’s making him apprehensive all the same. It’s not even the first time someone has been snooping around and discovered the unit hosts three cops who have taken a, uh, scenic route to the job. Hell, it’s basically Anna’s job to know stuff about the people she’s going to be working with.

“Sure,” he says. “It’s not a secret. Our captain knows, our colleagues know. That’s about it.”

“Oh, surely not,” Anna scoffs, not unkindly. “Three former S.O.’s in the same building? Hardly counts as a coincidence.”

“It’s not, but it isn’t some great mystery either” Geralt says quietly. “We’re all from around here. We’ve known each other since preschool. When we quit, we all just gravitated back here. End of story.”

Anna’s expression tells him she doesn’t believe him. Geralt sighs. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just curious,” she says airily. “You three have a reputation.”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sure, he and Eskel and Lambert work a lot of cases together, but that’s because they get along. He can stand most of the people in the force okay, Eskel gets along with anyone (even the surly secretary lady downstairs, which is a fucking miracle), and Lambert pisses everyone off in equal measures; it’s only natural the captain wants to take advantage of their skills.

“I guess,” he says. He drinks his coffee and burns his tongue.

Anna smiles. “I didn’t mean to be impolite. As I said, I’m curious.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt shrugs. “But whether you believe me or not, the truth is that we’re just normal people working boring jobs.”

Anna smiles wider and sets down her empty cup. “Alright. How about we grab lunch sometime?”

The question throws him off the loop, badly. For a split-second there is mostly white noise in his head, and then he pulls back into his brain out of an age-old habit.

“Uh. Maybe?” he says, feeling like a complete twat.

They shake hands, and then Anna waves goodbye and breezes out. Geralt gathers the cups and throws them into trash before making his way back to his desk. For some reason, he’s feeling odd. Not bad odd, but not necessarily good either. It’s like being off-balance.

Lambert takes one look at him from his own desk and shakes his head disapprovingly. “A gorgeous woman walks in, talks to you for heaven knows what reason, takes you to coffee, and then you manage to screw it up. How are you even alive, man?”

Geralt frowns at his computer, which is glitching again. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Did you even _look_ at her?” Lambert says and throws his hands in the air. “She was a solid nine, man, and she was making the bedroom eyes to you all the way to the lobby!”

“Right,” he mutters, moving the mouse and causing the text-processor to freeze up. A small muscle twitches on its own accord next to his right eye.

“’Right’? The whole female gender is wasted on you,” Lambert continues indignantly. “I have no fucking idea how you manage to fuck up something so simple. Were I you, I’d be halfway to her condo by now, promising her sweet nothings all the way.”

“Go sit on a dick, Lambert,” Geralt offers absentmindedly. He tries to pull up task manager, but the computer just emits a pitiful whirring sound. The cursor stays frozen in place over the words “perliminary ivestigaton.”

“I’m starting to think that’s more your cup of tea, seeing how well you handled that. Too bad the faggot festival was in June.”

Geralt stills. He feels hot, acrid anger course through him, despite knowing Lambert doesn’t mean it; despite knowing Lambert has spent the past two weeks desperately waiting for Keira to finally pick up her phone, and thus hasn’t probably slept more than three hours a night.

He looks up at Lambert. The younger man meets his eyes without flinching, but Geralt knows him too well to be fooled by the blank face he’s pulling. Lambert knows he’s just fucked up big time, and not only because he knows how Geralt feels about anything bigoted or derogatory. He’s learned a lot and has admittedly cleaned up his vocabulary after Ciri came out of the closet (which only goes to show how much he cares about her, too.) But from time to time he messes up, and it always angers Geralt.

Without a word, Geralt picks up his wallet and phone and leaves the office. In the locker room he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales, forcing the tension out of his body. He changes out of his uniform, superglues Lambert’s shoes to the floor, and leaves the building.

His phone chirps when he reaches the car.

_**Dettlaff:** Would it be untoward to ask for a lift home tomorrow? Our plane lands around seven in the evening and the weather forecast promised a storm. We have some very good wine with which we thought to bribe you. Regis sends his regards. _

_**Geralt:** You had me at wine. See you tomorrow. _

_**Dettlaff:** You’re a real treasure. I’ll call you if anything comes up. See you at seven-thirty tomorrow. _

He realizes he’s smiling the same soft smile which prompted Anna to ask whether he was texting with some woman. The tension  leaks out of him at the realization h e gets to see Regis and Dettlaff tomorrow, and  it leaves him a lot less angry  too .  It confuse s him.

Eskel sends  him  a video of Lambert throwing a fit about the shoes, and  that lifts  Geralt’s mood even more as he putters around the garage. His friend’s car is again making some funky noises, and despite Julian swearing he hasn’t done anything weird with it, Geralt knows the  damn artist has once again tried to impress some lady with little success.  He rolls under the car, changes parts which have definitely hit a curb somewhere, and hums along to  _ Born to Run  _ until the clock tells him he should probably head home.

The storm is brewing by the time Geralt parks his car close to the arrivals’ hall. He jogs inside just as the first raindrops start to fall. The sky is gloomy and dark, and Geralt sighs as he remembers he still doesn’t own an umbrella. Ciri took his a few weeks ago, and he keeps forgetting to get a new one.

The arrivals screen tells him his friends’ flight is delayed only ten minutes despite the weather. He leans against a railing and passes the time watching people. It’s an old habit, guessing details about strangers and making up stories about them.

There’s a young couple, clearly back from a long trip judging by the size of the luggage they drag across the lobby. They seem exhausted, but Geralt sees there’s no tension between them. The guy holds the girl’s hand gently as they make their way to the front door. He hears the girl make a comment about the rain, to which the guy replies something which is lost to the sound of the wind howling outside.

A woman runs towards a small boy and lifts him up, eyes brimming with tears. An older girl trails after the boy, and the woman pulls her into a hug, too. They stand there for a long time, a close-knit bundle of smiles and sniffles. The girl calls the woman ‘aunt Lizzy’ and asks whether she’d bought them lasagna. The boy squeals in delight when his aunt confirms this.

Geralt is letting his thoughts drift when a hand lands on his shoulder. He stiffens up as he turns around, but when he sees a familiar face the tension cracks like a dry stick. He doesn’t get any time to react when Regis pulls him into a hug.

For a second, he’s frozen. He can’t remember when someone besides Ciri had hugged him. Then he returns the embrace and breathes in Regis’ aftershave’ s earthy notes and the smell of airplanes.  The dark, stubbornly curly hair tickles his cheek.

“Good to see you,” Regis says when he lets him go.

“Likewise,” Geralt answers just before Dettlaff hugs him too. Regis is shorter than him and Dettlaff is a touch taller, and it’s such a fascinating contrast he hugs the man back without a second thought. Dettlaff is surprisingly strong, and for a while Geralt just lets himself relax against him. The moment is gone in seconds, but it leaves him with a feeling he suddenly can’t find a name for.

“How was your flight?” he asks and gets two sets of grimaces in answer.

“A crying baby,” Dettlaff says and shakes his head tiredly.

“The air pressure did her no favors,” Regis adds as they start towards the doors.

Geralt makes a face. “Ouch.”

“Also, I’m not very fond of traveling by an airplane,” Dettlaff adds as they reach the doors.

“He’s afraid of flying,” Regis mutters, just loud enough that Geralt knows only he can hear it. The doctor throws a sympathetic look towards his partner, and Geralt feels that echo between them.

The storm has reached them when they arrive at the main door. Geralt looks at the water hitting the pavement with vigor.

“How about I go get the car? No point in all of us getting soaked.”

“Are you sure?” Regis asks and frowns.

“Yeah,” Geralt says and then ducks out of the doors before the two can start a round of protests. He runs to his car, but the rain is falling in earnest. As he turns the ignition, he can feel his jeans cling to his legs and rainwater drip from his hair. He cranks the heater on and then drives so close to the doors he’d probably get ticketed if any police officers saw him.

Dettlaff claims the front seat and rubs his hands together in front of the heater grille. As Regis slams the back door closed, Geralt pulls off from the doors and tries to remember where the exit to the highway was.

“Welcome back. Home country’s showing her best sides.”

“Indeed,” Dettlaff says. “I had managed to forget how bad the storms can get.”

“Where’s your umbrella?” Regis asks Geralt.

“Ciri took it. Kept forgetting to buy a new one,” he explains and earns a frown.

“You’re going to get sick.”

“Never do,” he shrugs. Regis leans back and looks skeptical.

“How was the conference?” Geralt asks Dettlaff to avoid further scolding.

“Fascinating,” Dettlaff says with a smile. “I got into an argument with a scholar from my alma mater. In the end she swore she’s going to quote me in some unfavorable way in her next paper.”

Geralt glances at the man and sees him grinning. He chuckles. “I take that’s the academics’ way of saying ‘fuck you?’”

“You’re as bright as ever,” comes the answer, and he laughs.

The windscreen wipers make silent arcs against the gathering dark and the pounding rain. The car grows warm by the time he pulls to the highway, and Geralt notices he’s still smiling. Dettlaff is checking emails on his phone, making grumpy and delighted faces in fast succession. In the back seat, Regis watches them in silence. Their eyes meet in the rear view mirror, and the man smiles at him.

Geralt parks illegally in front of the apartment building and helps carry their bags up the stairs. He’s already preparing to go home, when Dettlaff puts a hand on his arm to stop him at the door. His hand is warm against Geralt’s chilled skin.

“Would you like to stay? I was going to cook something.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve just been gone for two weeks. Do you even have any groceries?”

Dettlaff’s mouth quirks up. “We’ve hired a young lady to do our cleaning for us. She stocks our fridge whenever we go on a longer trip. Makes coming home that much more pleasant,” he explains.

“Oh,” Geralt says. “Well, I’d like to, but I don’t have anything dry to wear.” He gestures to his jeans and jacket, both of which are dripping water on the neat foyer floor.

Dettlaff withdraws his hand to gesture towards their bedroom. “I’m sure we’ll find you something.”

‘Something’ turns out to be a faded university t-shirt and sweats, both of which belong to Dettlaff, going by the size. The shirt is a tight fit, but it serves. Geralt pads to the kitchen from the bathroom and smells french toast. He runs the towel through his hair once more and then tries to sort through it with his fingers.

“Damn. Should just cut it all off,” he finally sighs, giving up and sitting down next to Regis.

Regis looks at him. “It’d be a shame. It suits you,” he says.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “My friend kept pestering me for letting it grow out. I lost a bet, and here we are.”

“Remind me to thank him.” Regis grins at him, and the sight sends a stab of fondness through Geralt. It’s been so long since he’d get to enjoy such closeness with people. Regis may tease him about stuff, but it’s never malicious. Geralt can’t remember a single time when he would have felt really insulted in Regis’ company. Annoyed, yes, whenever the doctor goes off on one of his endless monologues, but never badly.

The french toast is amazing, and he gets a steaming cup of tea to chase away the last of the chill. They chat about the conference and about the garage, and only when Geralt takes a look at the clock does he realize it’s almost ten.

“I should get going, let you settle down,” he says as he puts his dishes into the sink.

Dettlaff stifles a yawn, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. He heads for the door and starts working his sopping wet shoes on. Regis trails after him.

“I’m sorry if I overstayed,” Geralt says and rubs his neck. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You did not,” Regis says reassuringly, and the tension slips away. “We invited you in, remember?”

“Still, you must be tired after the trip. Good thing it’s Friday, you get to settle in before getting back to work,” Geralt says.

“Yes, I know for a fact I need some down time before the semester starts,” Regis muses and then smiles again. “Thank you so much for the ride home, Geralt.”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs. Regis’ smile is making Geralt reluctant to leave, as odd as it is. “I’ll return the clothes as soon as I find the time to do some laundry.”

“No rush,” Dettlaff says as he walks into the foyer.

“Well, good night.” Geralt waves them goodbye and then walks back to his car, which is mercifully ticket-less and not towed away. The rain pelts him to the bone by the time he gets the motor going, and a renewed shiver runs through him. It vanishes after the heater starts working, and as he drives home he keeps feeling content.

All of that is gone the next morning. Geralt wakes up with a throat so sore he can hardly swallow. He forces down a glass of water and feels violent tremors run through him as he uses the bathroom.

Fucking awesome. Just as he got around to bragging about never falling ill.

He shoots a quick text to Eskel, canceling their plans of hitting a pub in the evening and falls back into bed. Sleep eludes him for a while, but when it finally comes, it rushes over him like a prickly, hot wave. His dreams are feverish and oppressive.

Geralt wakes up again around  one in the afternoon . He chokes down a painkiller and another glass of water. It feels like he had swallowed a cactus, and the fever doesn’t show any signs of relinquishing its hold. He feels about a hundred years old.

A quick glance at his phone shows he has two unread messages. The first one had arrived at ten.

_**Regis:** If you’re not doing anything today, would you like to come and watch a movie? We did promise you some wine, after all. _

The second one is from half an hour ago.

_**Regis:** I’m sorry if I’m fretting, but I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Please send me a message to let  us know everything’s in order. _

Geralt blearily types out a message. A vicious headache is throbbing behind his temples.

_**Geralt:** I’m fine, just got sick after all. Catch the movie some other night. _

His phone vibrates on the nightstand  almost as soon as he sets it down , and he reaches a hand out from under the duvet to read the message.  His teeth keep chattering.

_**Regis:** Oh dear. I’m getting worried. What can I do  to help? _

_**Geralt:** Just running a fever. I’ll manage. _

He falls asleep immediately afterwards. Again his dreams make no sense, and they’re so vibrantly horrible he mistakes the ringing doorbell for one more hellscape noise in his subconscious for a long while.

When he drags himself to the door, it reveals a frowning Regis who is carrying a bag.

“Regis,” Geralt croaks and winces at the pain. “What’re you doing here?”

“Taking care of a friend,” Regis answers and pushes into the apartment before Geralt’s overcooked brain can formulate an answer. He shuts the door, turns around, and sees Regis pull off his coat.

“You’re gonna get sick too,” he says, or attempts to, but a fit of coughs hits him before he knows he’s being understood.

Regis looks unimpressed. “I’m a doctor, Geralt. We get approximately seventeen different flu shots a year. I’m willing to take my chances, especially since you got sick because you came to get us from the airport.”

Geralt tries to argue some more, but Regis simply pushes him back into the bed, produces a thermometer from his bag, and unceremoniously shoves the damn thing into his mouth

“Where’s Dettlaff?” Geralt mumbles around it.

“At home, preparing something for you to eat,” Regis answers. “Now shut up.”

Geralt lets his eyes fall closed, and he’s almost dozing when Regis plucks the thermometer from his mouth some minutes later.

“You have quite a fever,” Regis mutters. He pushes his cool hand against Geralt’s forehead, and it feels heavenly. “Have you managed to drink anything?”

“Not really,” Geralt confesses. “Took a couple of painkillers before you came.”

Regis withdraws his hand and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water and some pills.

“These will hopefully get the fever down,” he explains. Geralt sits up, feeling downright pathetic, and forces the pills and water down. Regis’ hand returns, rubbing his back, and Geralt leans against the contact unconsciously. When he’s done, he passes the glass back to Regis and lies down. He pulls the duvet up to his chin and looks at Regis.

“Thanks,” he whispers. His voice is officially gone, with what little words he has managed today. “I’ll be alright now.”

Regis smiles at him. “Let’s hope so.”

Just as Geralt falls asleep, he imagines a hand brushing through his hair, once.

When his bladder wakes him up, the room is dim. There’s a light coming from under the door, and the clock on the nightstand tells him it’s almost six in the evening. He still feels like death, but maybe a little less so than earlier.

He opens the door and trudges into bathroom. When he’s done, he heads for the kitchen, and is greeted by Regis’ worried frown.

“I thought you went home,” Geralt says hoarsely. His voice is still not back from its impromptu holiday.

Regis shrugs. “I figured I’d keep an eye on you. Your fever was quite high,” he says. “If you don’t mind,” he adds, suddenly looking down, and there’s the same faint redness on his cheeks as before when he’s suddenly uncertain about his actions. Geralt realizes yet again he’s not the only one feeling a bit lost right now. For a while he wants to draw Regis closer and tell him it’s okay, that _this_ is okay.

“No, I don’t mind,” Geralt says instead. He drinks some water and then drags his duvet into the living room and collapses onto the sofa.

“You should sleep,” Regis says as he sits down in the armchair.

“I’ve slept the whole day,” Geralt yawns. “At this rate I’ll be up all night.”

“I doubt it. Do you think you could eat?” Regis asks.

Geralt thinks about it for a second and then nods. “I can try.”

Regis gets up and leaves the room. “Dettlaff made you some soup. He doesn’t have flu shots, but he wanted to help too,” the doctor calls out from the kitchen.

Geralt smiles as he turns on the television. He surfs through the channels and eventually settles  on a re-run of  an Indiana Jones movie. It’s the  _ Temple of Doom _ , so at least it keeps him entertained.  As far as he’s concerned, there are three of them, and anyone claiming otherwise can fuck right off.

Regis brings him a bowl of soup a short while after and settles back into the armchair. Geralt eats almost all before his throat starts hurting too much.

“It was good,” he says as he passes the bowl back to Regis. “Tell Dettlaff he officially saved me from starving to death.”

Regis frowns. “Do you mind if I look into your throat? I’d like to make sure you don’t have angina.”

“Go for it,” Geralt says. Regis fetches a small flashlight and a wooden stick from his bag and sits down next to him on the sofa.

“Open your mouth and say ‘ah,’” he instructs as his hand carefully cups Geralt’s cheek. Geralt feels the stick push his tongue down and the light sends a ray of headache through his head. Regis peers in and then puts the utensils away. His hands come to feel under Geralt’s jaw, and again the cool touch feels so good Geralt’s eyes droop.

The soft brush of fingers lingers for a while and then Regis withdraws.  Geralt almost hopes he’d just keep petting him; the touch distracts him from what feels like his imminent death.

“No angina, and your lymph nodes seem fine, if a little swollen. You just have a very bad cold,” Regis says, looking satisfied.

“Lucky me,” Geralt wheezes. Regis gives him a fond smile and pushes him back down on the sofa before tugging the duvet up to his chin.

“You’ll live.”

They settle to watch the movie. Geralt is just dozing off when his phone goes off. He takes a look at the screen and groans.

“Hell no,” he mutters and silences the ringing.

“Who was it?” Regis asks.

“Yen. My ex,” Geralt mutters and burrows deeper into the sofa. “She has this habit of calling me under the pretext of catching up, but it usually evolves into a shouting match. Don’t currently have the voice for that.”

Regis looks sympathetic. “I take it your breakup was not of the nice ‘let’s stay friends’ variety?”

“Nope.” Geralt shakes his head to clear the feeling of being stuffed full of angry cotton. “We can mostly manage to be civil nowadays, especially when it comes to Ciri. But our relationship went up in flames three years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Regis says. “Are you currently seeing anyone?”

“Nah. Can’t find the time or energy, usually,” Geralt says. He remembers Lambert’s words, and they make him a bit sad this time, which is damn pathetic. He’s getting soft. “How do you guys manage not to kill each other after being together for almost a decade?” he asks to take his mind off the morose path.

Regis smiles and looks up, contemplating the question for a while. “As I told you, we’re both almost brutally honest with one another,” he eventually says. “We have a rule that anything that needs to be said can be said, no matter how bad it would seem, and it needs to be heard out before reacting.”

“Sounds useful,” Geralt says.

Regis nods. “It’s not very easy, but we have managed. We’re also not exclusive, as it stands.” His dark eyes look at Geralt like he is curious to see how he reacts.

“Really?” Geralt blurts out. “How does that work in long term?”

“Again, by being honest and not taking stupid risks,” Regis says simply. “We concluded very early into our relationship that we both wanted to be with each other, but not limit our scopes too much.”

“So if either of you wants to have someone on the side...” Geralt begins, struggling to formulate the question.

Regis smiles to him. “Then we’re both free to do so, provided everyone involved knows how things are.” He leans back and crosses his feet at the ankles. “It may sound exciting, but mostly it means we don’t have to feel bad about taking an interest in someone else.”

Geralt has a quick flashback to Yen throwing a plate at him when she’d thought he was having an affair with his co-worker. He pushes the image aside.

“That sounds kinda sensible, now that I think about it,” he rasps. “As long as everyone keeps being honest.”

“Very true,” Regis says. “But I fear we’re taxing your throat too much by talking, no matter how interesting the topic.”

Geralt sinks back into the pillows. He falls asleep some time after that, and when he blinks his eyes open, it’s morning. He’s feeling a lot better.

He finds a note in the kitchen.

“ _Good morning, Geralt_

_I left after you fell asleep. I hope you’re feeling better. I left you another dose of the medicine for the fever; you can take it whenever you wake up. Take it easy for a few days. There’s more soup in your fridge, and I left you a book Dettlaff sent to you._

_Call me if you need anything, even just company._

_Regis”_

His phone has a new message, too.

_**Dettlaff:** I hope you’re feeling better. I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you, but I hope the soup was alright. Let me know how you’re doing when you have the energy. _

Geralt heats the soup up and makes a nest into the sofa before answering.

_**Geralt:** The food was amazing, thank you so much. Also can you tell Regis he’s heaven-sent. My fever’s down and I’ll probably have to take Monday off, but all in all it’s good. I’d like to come watch the movie whenever you have the time. _

Geralt suddenly becomes aware of how rarely he is the one suggesting anything to Dettlaff or Regis. He almost always says yes to anything they come up with, but some deep sense of uncertainty keeps him for asking for anything. Any time he gets to spend with them still feels like something precious and uncommon, but the truth is that they see each other several times a week; maybe he’s just making things difficult for himself.

His phone vibrates, and he picks it up.

_**Dettlaff:** As soon as you’re feeling better.  I hope the book I sent you will provide some distraction from the flu. I haven’t read it myself yet, but I figured you need it more than I do right now. _

At that, Geralt picks up the book and realizes it’s the latest part of the dystopia-series they’re both obsessed with by now. He’d known the newest issue was coming out soon, but he had been unclear on the exact date.  They have both been waiting for it like the second coming of a religious figure, though.

Something warm sweeps up from his belly and settles like a small animal  inside his chest; content to make its nest there and curl up in the sudden patch of sun.

_**Geralt:** You had the newest book and you gave it to me?? _

He keeps staring at the lid, where an exploding star in engulfing a speck he knows is the ship of the protagonist. His phone buzzes against his thigh.

_**Dettlaff:** Of course. _

There’s a small pause when Geralt looks at the text, trying to comprehend, and then there’s a new one:

_**Dettlaff:** I c ouldn’ t come and give you meds like Regis, but I could do this. And make you soup. _

Geralt swallows thickly. At least the cactus seems to have shrunken during the night.

_**Geralt:** Both of you saved my miserable life. Thanks. _

***

Geralt goes back to work on Tuesday. Lambert calls him a slacker, which seems to indicate they’re okay again. There are approximately ten thousand emails which he has no desire to read, and a mandatory unit meeting at ten.

Everyone files into the conference room like children who’d much rather be anywhere else. Their captain, who is a respected woman and a scary presence at the force, tells them they need to work through some issues with the district attorney bureau before introducing Anna to everybody. She looks confident, standing in front of the room like she belongs there.

The woman winks at Geralt before proceeding to tell them the paperwork standard of the district is abysmal and they all need to step up, or else. Around Geralt, people are giving her sideways glances and muttering less-than-flattering things about the bureau.

Geralt manages to listen long enough to discern the issue is not urgent, and then his brain slips free and starts to contemplate the book he’s reading. He’d managed to slog through two-thirds of it by Monday night, and the last part is promising to be fantastic. He can’t wait to talk about it with Dettlaff.

“I’m sure you all see how important this is,” Anna says with finality. “I have no desire to make your life miserable, but I will do that if this keeps up.”

Eskel looks at Geralt and rolls his eyes. Geralt gives him a dry smile. They plod back to their desks and Eskel drops into his abused chair with a heavy thud.

“Man, what a superwoman,” he sighs. “I knew we weren’t really doing a good work with the files, but that was downright scary.”

Geralt realizes he’s probably missed something of importance after all. “Huh?” he says as he powers up his ancient computer. “To me it just sounded like the basic babble about using the correct tense and font.”

Eskel groans. “Yeah, but her way of talking tells me she knows how to make good on her word. That woman’s going to be trouble.”

Lambert grins from behind his desk. “She tried to rope our esteemed colleague into a lunch date, but Geralt screwed it up.”

Eskel gapes at Geralt. “Wait, seriously? You know her?”

Geralt glares at Lambert before answering. “We had coffee. She told me she knows we have some ex-military guys here. That’s it,” he says.

“But she did ask you to lunch,” Lambert persists. His eyes are not malicious, though, so Geralt knows he’s still feeling bad about his latest foot-in-the-mouth episode.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“And you’re not interested?” Eskel asks. He doesn’t look convinced. “She’s beautiful, and if she’s working with the district bureau, she’s bound to be both clever and strong-willed.”

“I dunno,” Geralt mutters. He does like Anna, no lie there. She’s sharp and quick-witted, reminding him of Yen in so many ways.

“I’d say go for it,” Eskel says. “When was the last time you had a date?”

Geralt can’t remember, and that feels somewhat sad. His lack of an answer makes Eskel and Lambert look at each other with that ‘ _our brother needs help, stat_ ,’ way, and it both warms and annoys Geralt.

His phone buzzes, saving him from continuing the conversation. He half-expects it’s from Regis or Dettlaff, but the number is unfamiliar.

_**[Unknown]:** Hi Geralt! Would you like to take that lunch sometime this week? You looked bored out of your skull at the meeting, and I’m hoping I can encourage you to find the joy of well-formatted report files. Cheers, Anna _

“Lemme guess, that was our new district attorney?” Lambert pipes up. “She hasn’t given up on your sorry ass yet.”

“Yeah, it was her alright,” Geralt says. He creates a new contact and saves Anna’s number. He tells himself he’s going to need it anyway in the future.

“So?” Lambert leans forward. “Why aren’t you tapping away an enthusiastic ‘yes please take me out on a date’ yet?”

“It’s not a date,” Geralt grumbles as he sends a polite “ _sure, let’s have lunch_ ” to Anna.

“Is too,” Lambert says, rolling his eyes. Eskel throws their younger friend a warning glare, and Lambert thankfully shuts up at that.

***

“A date?” Regis asks from his customary place at the workbench, his voice gently teasing.

“It’s not a date,” Geralt mutters and resumes tugging at the stuck tire. “We had lunch.”

“And?” Dettlaff probes. He’s forcing the ancient bolts open with a t-handle socket wrench, or attempting to, anyway. The car is a rusted piece of crap, and Geralt still doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking when he promised to look it over.

“And we talked about work stuff and that’s it,” Geralt says. He gives the tire a good pull and it comes loose with a defeated groan.

“And now she’s asking you out to dinner sometime in the near future,” Regis finishes for him. “Sounds awfully lot like a date.”

“Why is everyone so desperately interested in my love life?” Geralt asks, depositing the tire on the floor with a sullen expression. “I’m not that fascinating.” He’s feeling off, but can’t put his finger on why.

Dettlaff huffs a laugh as he strains to get the bolt to yield. “We’re just taking an interest in your general well-being.” He gives the wrench a twist, but nothing happens. A frustrated sigh leaves him.

“Let me see,” Geralt says, nudging Dettlaff aside with his elbow. The man gives up the wrench and steps back, looking at the bolt like it had just offended his ancestors.

Geralt positions the wrench properly and leans his weight on it. There’s a slow, agonized creak, and then the bolt comes loose and makes him stumble. Dettlaff’s hand grabs his shoulder before he falls over.

Geralt looks at the bolt and feels a faint hint of despair. “These are all rusted through. Why on earth did I agree to take this on?”

Dettlaff pats his back sympathetically. “Because under all your gruff exterior you have a good heart, and can’t bear to leave a friend in need.”

Geralt looks at him, unimpressed, and it takes two seconds for Dettlaff to start laughing.

“Alright, maybe you just like the challenge,” he amends. Geralt snorts, but he’s enjoying making Dettlaff’s stoic composure crumble. The more they get to know each other, the more Geralt is learning to appreciate Dettlaff’s dry humor and the rare instances when his face turns open and happy.

Regis grins. “Forgive me for prying, Geralt, but I  do find you very fascinating. I’m trying to imagine what sort of a woman you’d like to end up with,” he says with a teasing smile.

Geralt glances at Regis before looking back at his work  and not really seeing anything  as he feels his chest tighten . He knows it’s meant as a good-natured jibe, but  the words manage to penetrate through his defenses  too easily and hit a sore point .

He hasn’t imagined himself with anyone for a long while,  maybe  not since he and Yen broke up for good. That relationship rattled him to his core, and he still hasn’t succeeded in pulling his head out of what feels like a marshland of disappointment and resentment.  And now Anna is clearly interested, and it’s making him uncomfortable for some reason he can’t find through the fog that seems to have taken over his head.

He tries to come up with an answer that doesn’t immediately betray how fucking lost he is with all this stuff, but he draws a blank and knows his face is telling Regis and Dettlaff all they need to know. Dettlaff looks at him, suddenly worried, and is about to say something, when his phone goes off. He looks at it and shakes his head in a way that tells Geralt he’s irritated.

“Faculty is calling, I need to take this,” he says as he walks out of the garage into the cooling autumn evening.

After a short while, Regis stands up and walks to where Geralt is crouching down and attempting to dislodge another bolt. Geralt keeps his eyes down until Regis’ hand lands on his forearm and gently pulls him up. He meets the dark eyes with some reluctance.

“I’m sorry,” Regis says as he grasps Geralt’s limp hands. “I didn’t realize how it is.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt says and looks away.

“It’s not,” Regis chides him gently, his hands squeezing Geralt’s tighter.

“Everyone keeps pestering me about Anna,” Geralt finally mutters. “And I don’t know what I wanna do about her.”

It’s so damn hard. Anna is everything Eskel and Lambert had speculated; smart and beautiful, and has a wickedly sharp sense of humor. She was easy enough to chat with. By all accounts, Geralt should be feeling excited and thanking his lucky stars someone like that has apparently taken an interest in him.

And he just keeps feeling conflicted,  and he doesn’t know why.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Regis says quietly. His eyes are gentle and he looks almost sad.

Geralt heaves a sigh. “It bothers me when everybody tells me I’m isolating myself, and I never find time to really live.” He looks around the garage. “Maybe I should just move in here and nail the door shut.”

“Well, I’m glad you do find the time for us,” Regis smiles. “And I’d feel terribly disappointed if you decided to shun all company, just when Dettlaff and I have managed to drag you out of your shell a bit.”

Regis’ teasing is genial, and it makes Geralt relax a bit. He manages to meet the doctor’s eyes again. Regis keeps holding onto him, and Geralt doesn’t feel like letting go. “Dunno, maybe I’m just having a bit of an inferiority complex,” he muses. “I seem to find myself in the company of scarily smart people nowadays, and the bottom line is that I’m not very bright or have much to offer to anyone.”

It’s meant as a joke, or close to it anyway, but suddenly Geralt knows it’s much closer to truth than he’d necessarily like. Something about Regis makes him blurt out stuff he’d like to keep to himself.

Regis’ smile falls and he steps just a bit closer. Geralt has to resist the urge to lean  into him, because Regis  is safe and warm.

“Don’t say that, Geralt.” Regis looks distressed. His hands come to rest on Geralt’s shoulders, thumbs moving in calm sweeps. “You’re such an amazing person, and I’m hoping you never have to feel like we don’t value you immensely.”

“No- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I-” Geralt says. Words seem to have deserted him, and Regis’ soothing touch on his collarbones is distracting. Not in a bad way, his mind whispers from somewhere far away.

“You’ve become very dear to us,” Regis continues, and his eyes suddenly take on a decisive sheen as he swallows. “ _And_ you’re unfairly attractive.”

Geralt blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what Regis is saying. The doctor is looking at him steadily, holding on to him like he knows Geralt needs an anchor right now. A long while passes, and  then Regis makes a move to withdraw.

Without a thought,  Geralt lets his hands come to rest on top of Regis’. He looks down and manages a wry smile  as he squeezes Regis’ hands. “I don’t know how to answer,” he confesses in a quiet, curious voice. He feels Regis chuckle, and the tension leaves his frame.

“You don’t have to,” he says reassuringly as he steps back.

D ettlaff comes back a while after, and seems to read the atmosphere correctly with little effort. He and Regis exchange a glance and the topic of  the assumed date is dropped. Geralt is fiercely grateful to abandon the discussion in favor of teasing Dettlaff about the new book. It’s a novel feeling to know how the story goes before his friend.

Dettlaff, who has been tasked with sorting through the bolts, is making horrified faces as Geralt gives him fake spoilers about the plot. Geralt tries to come up with the most improbable scenarios and then present them as facts, but his poker face abandons him altogether when Regis starts snorting  with laughter  from the workbench, causing all three of them to succumb to near-hysteric s soon after.

Geralt wheezes as he tries to get his breathing back under control, and two things skitter through his mind in quick succession. He looks at Regis and Dettlaff, both still equally unhinged, and a deep sense of certainty washes over him. It’s gone the next second, when his gaze drops to Dettlaff’s grinning mouth and he feels the same urge to step closer as he’d felt with Regis a moment ago.

His breath catches as he allows himself to imagine it, just for a second.  Then he wrenches his mind away from it, swallowing hard and forcing his brain back into the present moment.

Hours later, after dropping Regis and Dettlaff off at their apartment and making plans to finally watch that movie on Friday, Geralt curls up in his bed and lets all breath go out of him as he admits he’s in deep shit.

He keeps replaying the moments of that evening until he falls asleep, and when he wakes up it’s with a gut twisted up with worry. The feeling persists throughout the day, and Geralt is feeling like shit by the time he is back at home with three unanswered texts. He collapses on the sofa and flicks the tv open, trying to drown out the sound of wordless, horrified screaming his mind has apparently taken up.

When he finally gathers himself enough to  unlock the phone, he has to swallow against a stab of guilt.

_**Regis:** I hope I didn’t alarm you yesterday. I won’t do either of us the disservice of pretending I didn’t mean what I said, but I hope it doesn’t affect our friendship. That I’d find hard to live with. _

_**Dettlaff:** I finished the book, at long last. It was just as good as you said. I can’t wait to  argue about the ending with you. That is quickly becoming one of my favorite past times. _

_**Anna:** Dinner on Saturday,  at six ? I know this small place that has amazing kimchi. _

Geralt scrolls through the messages  again  before typing out replies to Anna (“ _ Sure, see you then. _ ”) and to Dettlaff (“ _ Prepare to be proven wrong on all your sacred opinions, I have a theory that explains it all and I’m not afraid to use it. _ ”) Then he just lies back and stares at Regis’ message. He can’t come up with a single thing to say.

No, that’s a lie.

The part of his brain which is not currently  howling in absolute horror at the mess of things, wants to tell Regis he doesn’t need to worry; that Geralt likes him much more than is appropriate, and that the only  real  problem is that Geralt can’t fucking distinguish that feeling from wanting to press Dettlaff, too, against a wall and kiss his breath away.

Geralt swallows thickly, staring at the ceiling and letting the noise from the television wash over him.  Admitting to his problems is supposed to help coming up with a solution, but there is nothing apparent that springs to his mind. He lies very still as he mentally wades through every instance of proximity and trust from the past months, and finally sees how sneakily the feelings had developed.

He ignores the fact that he’s usually not attracted to men, and focuses on trying to understand how in hell did he develop feelings towards two separate people simultaneously. That, too, leaves him empty-handed. Geralt buries his face in his hands in frustration.

Regis and Dettlaff are very different, and still thinking about both of them elicits a swooping, warm feeling in his gut.  And it’s always the two of them together in Geralt’s head,  and it only serves to empathize how much of a unbreakable unit the two of them are.  Inconvenient doesn’t even begin to cover it.  Especially since yesterday Regis had all but told Geralt the feeling is mutual on his part.

_**Geralt:** Please don’t worry. Everything’s good. _

It’s woefully inadequate, and not even nearly all Geralt wants to tell Regis, but there just aren’t words to explain this.

“ _I like you too, a lot, but I like your partner as well, and for some godawful reason I can’t imagine being with just either one of you.”_

Geralt types the sentence out as an exercise of getting his shit together before his mind can catch up, and then just turns the screen off without hitting ‘send’ and tosses his phone away.

***

His gut is still twisted up in knots when he rings the familiar doorbell on Friday.  Dettlaff answers the door, takes one look at his face, and pulls him inside before wrapping him into a hug.

“You’re not having a very good week,” he says, and that undoes Geralt. He sags against Dettlaff and wraps his arms around him. It’s all about comfort, and right now everything is feeling difficult and confusing. Dettlaff’s hand comes up and buries itself into Geralt’s hair, and maybe it’s a bit intimate, but it feels so good.

“’M fine,” Geralt mutters into Dettlaff’s shirt and gets an amused laugh out of him.

“Regis told me he managed to spill the beans,” Dettlaff says calmly, not letting him go just yet. His fingers are making small movements against Geralt’s scalp, and it’s maddening. “He’s been feeling horribly guilty about it the whole week.”

“I told him everything’s fine,”Geralt says and pulls back, frowning. “I’m not made of glass.”

“Regis is like that,” Dettlaff says and shrugs. “He’s very careful with people he cares about.”

“What about you? Are you okay?” Geralt forces himself to ask, because as much as the thought of being cared for appeals to him, he feels the need to make sure he’s not wreaking havoc between Regis and Dettlaff. His own feelings about them aside, he knows he’d rather off himself than come between them in any way. It’s surprising, but something tells him it’s true.

Dettlaff smiles and reaches to squeeze his shoulder. “I am. We’re being honest with each other and ourselves, and that’s what matters,” he says as he leads Geralt into their spacious living room. “Regis popped into the corner store to get some last minute ingredients,” he adds as Geralt sits on the sofa’s armrest.

Geralt ha s obviously seen the room many times before, but it always makes him want to look around  anew . There’s a piano nestled into the nook next to a big, west-facing window.  The walls are decorated with watercolor works, some of them from Dettlaff’s hand, some from a friend of theirs. There are also several potte d plants.  Geralt knows Regis likes to take care of plants, and even now he spies a new one; it has funny, perfectly round leaves that catch the light of the setting sun  from where it sits on the windowsill .  He gets up and walks up to the window to examine  it .

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Dettlaff calls out, leaving him looking out of the window and deep in thought.

Geralt doesn’t hear the door open, but suddenly there’s a small cough from behind him, and when he turns, Regis is standing there, bathed in the golden evening light and looking apologetic and nervous.

“It’s called Chinese money plant,” Regis says as he joins Geralt at the window and gestures towards the plant. “ _Pilea peperomioides_ , to be exact.” He holds himself carefully, leaving a foot of space between himself and Geralt.

“I like the leaves,” Geralt says, finding his smile.

“Me, too,” Regis says and a smile tugs at his lips too, despite the worried crease that persists on his forehead. He turns away and rubs his arm; the movement is unconscious and awkward. “Dettlaff told me we have quite enough plants, but I disagree-”

Regis’ words are interrupted by Geralt stepping closer and pulling him into a hug. For a while the doctor remains passive, stiffening up. Geralt has just enough time to panic, think that he’d somehow misread the situation, when Regis relaxes and hugs him back.

Geralt feels Regis bury his face into his neck, and his chest tightens.

“We’re okay,” Geralt whispers instead of doing something stupid like kissing Regis’ hair. “You don’t need to worry.”

He hears Regis swallow heavily. The doctor pulls back and looks at Geralt with his kind, tired eyes. He seems less wound up than moments ago, but he doesn’t let go from where he is holding on to Geralt’s arms.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly, and Geralt has to look away because it would be so simple to lean down and kiss Regis. He wants to do it, wants to bury his hands into the dark curls and sneak an arm around his slim waist, pulling him closer until there’s nothing separating them.

Geralt steps back, his heart hammering in his chest. His neck is feeling hot as he gestures towards the tv-set and tries desperately to come up with something to pull his focus away from Regis’ mouth.

“So, what’s the movie about?” he asks, and notes with a desperate sort of relief his voice is not sounding too strained.

Regis picks up the remote and fiddles with it. “You’re familiar with the movie  _ Mad Max _ , I trust?” he asks. His eyes have a curious expression, but Geralt forces his mind to ignore it.

The movie turns out to be amazing, a remake of the 70’s classic that had somehow slipped Geralt’s attention completely. Geralt manages to let his agitation go completely as he’s swept up with the story. He’s sandwiched between Regis and Dettlaff on their sofa, and after a glass of wine he feels his body relax into the cushions.

Regis keeps pointing out small curiosities about the movie, Dettlaff keeps telling him to shut up, and Geralt feels so, so at home there, taking both of their sides in turn just to keep the banter going. He gets exasperated, fond smiles from Regis and Dettlaff’s light eyes keep dragging him closer, until his shoulder is pressed firmly against Regis’ and his thigh leans against Dettlaff’s in one long line. They stay like that, and when the movie turns sad Geralt wraps his arm around Regis’ shoulder with little conscious thought. After a small moment, Dettlaff’s arm moves and  carefully  winds itself around Geralt’s  shoulders ,  and that’s it, he’s officially gone;  Geralt melts into the contact, and lets out a satisfied sigh.

Regis dozes off, leaning against Geralt with his full weight by the time the movie ends. Geralt is feeling warm and loose, and Dettlaff’s arm around him is a heavy, comforting weight anchoring him. They let the credits run, neither feeling like speaking until Dettlaff suddenly let’s his head drop to nuzzle Geralt’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers before drawing a deep breath. “I’m not making this any easier for you, for to myself.”

Geralt loses himself in the feeling of Dettlaff’s lips brushing against his forehead before the man gets up, gently extracting himself from the pile they’d made on the sofa. He stalls and then looks Geralt in the eye.  A worried frown is forming on his face, and his hands twitch nervously.

Geralt beats him to it. “I don’t mind,” he croaks out, and holy fuck, he’s so scared. His heart is in his throat, and Dettlaff’s gorgeous eyes just tear right through him.

Dettlaff bends down and brushes his fingers through Geralt’s hair before smiling and withdrawing. He looks calmer than a moment ago as he looks at Regis, who is blinking open bleary eyes and smiling in a way that Geralt categorizes as amused.

“I should probably get going,” Geralt mutters and reluctantly drags himself up from the sofa. He knows he’s blushing, and prays the dim lighting hides how undone he is.

Regis walks him to the door and watches him pull on jacket and shoes without uttering a word. Geralt lingers in the doorway; he feels like he should say something, anything, to untangle the evening, but nothing comes out. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and sees Regis is smiling that same gentle smile as before. The doctor reaches for his hand, and Geralt lets him drag it out and twine their fingers together comfortingly.

“Don’t rush it,” Regis says. He doesn’t specify it further, merely squeezes Geralt’s hand before letting him go.

Geralt leaves the apartment and somehow makes it home  with no memory of how he got there . His head is full of white noise as he collapses into bed. He has a short moment when he thinks he’ll never be able to  let go of the madly whirling thoughts , but sleep takes him immediately afterwards.

***

Geralt  meets  Anna  in the city center,  and a short while after they find themselves seated  at a small table in a tiny restaurant. The place is tucked between a bookshop and a pharmacy in the old downtown area, and it’s positively charming.

Anna is dressed in a dark green dress with long sleeves and gold embroidery around the neckline. She’s looking very pretty, and Geralt remembers to tell her as much. She looks delighted. They order food and some wine, and their conversation flows easily.

Geralt feels like an asshole the whole time. Anna is clearly thinking they’re on a date, and all he can think about is that she’d be perfect if they’d only met a bit earlier; if he hadn’t bumped into two quirky men in June, he would probably have fallen for Anna by now. She’s so much his type it’s frankly ridiculous. If only.

So when they step out and Anna moves closer to give him a kiss, Geralt takes a step back and rubs his neck.

“Oh,” Anna says, not coming any closer. “I thought...”

Geralt tries to stop his body from tensing up; Anna is still standing very close, and his automatic reaction is to move and create more space for himself.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “You’re amazing, but I can’t...”

Anna waits for him to continue, but when nothing comes she sighs and steps back. “Was I being too straightforward?” she asks, frowning a bit.

Geralt shakes his head in earnest. Gods, he feels awful. “No, it’s not anything you did. Believe me.” He rubs his neck again.

_I’m just apparently much better at falling for two of the best friends I’ve ever had, instead of going for the obvious, perfect choice._

The thought falls through his mind like a rock and shatters his resolve as it goes. He hopes nothing of that shows on his face when he looks at Anna.

“I’m sorry I led you on,” he says finally. Anna sighs again and wraps her arms around her slight frame.

“It’s alright. At least you told me before-” she cuts off and shrugs before forcing a smile. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I’m still planning on making your life miserable at work.” Her voice is disappointed, but not angry, and Geralt is fiercely glad he didn’t screw this up worse than this.

He walks Anna to the subway and then he’s left alone with his thoughts.  He leans on a bus stop  shelter  for a long while and tries to ignore how his head is roiling, but it’s futile. He knows how things stand, and apparently  so does anyone who is bothered  to look long enough.

Geralt rubs a hand down his face and stares with unfocused eyes at the gathering dark clouds. He knows he should pull himself together and let this go. He _can’t_ go and tell Regis and Dettlaff what he’s thinking, because as amazing as they are, it’s surely not something they would understand. How is it even possible Geralt managed to fall in love with two people at the same time? Why couldn’t he just pick one, and maybe it would’ve worked out fine?

Geralt pushes away from the wall and starts walking. He has a hazy thought of going home and drinking himself stupid when the rain starts to fall. He looks up at the falling water and his mind is screaming.

***

Dettlaff opens the door and his eyes widen. He takes in Geralt’s miserable, soaked form and pulls him inside.

“Geralt, what happened? Are you okay?” he asks. His hands fly to Geralt’s jacket and strip him out of it as his eyes look him over.

Regis peeks around the corner from the living room and his expression turns worried. He rushes to get towels and then joins Dettlaff and Geralt in the foyer.

“What’s wrong?” Regis asks, too, and Geralt swallows against the lump in his throat. He tries to force his teeth to stop chattering long enough to formulate some sort of an explanation.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages. He tries to stop himself from spilling over, because in the end he’d walked all the way here instead of going home like he’d intended to do, and now the hurt that forced him to move is growing too strong to handle.

Regis wraps a towel around his shoulders. His hands are warm, just like Geralt remembers.

“ _Sorry_?” Regis repeats. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Dettlaff returns from their bedroom and brings Geralt the same sweats and t-shirt he’d borrowed once before. Geralt accepts the clothes with a miserable nod, and when he’s changed he’s forcibly wrestled onto the sofa and handed a steaming mug of tea.

Regis slots himself between Geralt and the armrest. He’s pressed close, and his hand lands on Geralt’s shoulder. Dettlaff sits down on the divan part and crosses his legs as he reaches for Geralt’s hand. All the care and comfort overwhelms Geralt, and for a long while he can’t do much more than focus on breathing.

“I need to say something,” he finally rasps, when it becomes evident this isn’t going to get any easier. Regis and Dettlaff both look at him with worried eyes, and Geralt grapples desperately for some semblance of control as he takes a sip of the tea.

He looks down at his mug and draws a breath. “I’ve been trying to act normal, but I can’t do this. I’m about to screw everything up, but I can’t handle this alone.”

Regis open his mouth, but Dettlaff lifts his hand up. “Let him speak, Regis,” he says gently before looking back at Geralt. His hand squeezes Geralt’s, unflinching. “Anything can be said,” he continues.

_ Anything can be said.  _ The words echo through Geralt’s mind for a while. He draws in another deep breath, and his heart feels like it will burst any moment now.  He’s hurtling towards a steep cliff and there’s nothing to catch him when he falls.

“I’ve been falling in love with you, and I don’t know what to do,” he whispers. He looks from Dettlaff to Regis. “Both of you,” he adds so quietly it’s a wonder if either of them catches the words. It sounds insane to his own ears; it’s like he’s some weirdo who can’t make up his mind and attempts to wreck his friends’ life just for the fun of it. He’s sick of himself, but he can’t see any alternative. It’s this, or he’ll eventually fuck up their friendship some other way.

Geralt gets so lost in his inner storm that the next thing he’s aware of is Regis hugging him tightly and Dettlaff’s arms circling him as he scoots closer on the sofa. He keeps waiting for them to tell him to get lost, body tensed up like a spring, and then Regis presses a soft kiss just below his ear.

“Oh, you stupid man,” he says in a low, gentle voice. “We’re here. We’re both here, and you’re here too. It’s alright.”

The tension snaps, and Geralt is left reeling. He goes slack, and Regis and Dettlaff hold on to him and allow him to fall apart. He tries to breathe and wrap his mind around the fact that they’re not angry or disappointed. His hands are shaking so badly he carefully puts the mug on the floor to avoid scalding himself. Second-degree burns suck.

Dettlaff presses his nose against Geralt’s cheek, and it feels so good Geralt doesn’t know what to do with himself. He allows Dettlaff to turn his head carefully towards himself, and then there are lips brushing against his.

It takes him a few seconds to catch up to what’s happening. Dettlaff kisses him very slowly, and when Geralt finally dares to believe he’s not having a particularly vivid hallucination, he reciprocates equally carefully. Dettlaff cups his cheek and sighs in obvious relief. He tastes like the rooibos tea Geralt knows he often drinks in the evening.

When they part, Geralt is left staring with wide eyes, until Regis nudges him. Geralt turns around and sees him smiling widely. Regis’ hand joins Dettlaff’s on Geralt’s cheek, and that’s all the warning Geralt gets before another set of lips close over his.

Regis crowds him against Dettlaff, who nuzzles the back of Geralt’s neck with a happy huff. Regis kisses him equally gently, but he doesn’t seem to think Geralt will break. Geralt feels Regis’ tongue flit against his lips, and that makes him blush.

When they finally part, Geralt is firmly trapped between the two of them, and neither seems inclined to move soon. He leans against Dettlaff’s chest as Regis settles more comfortably against his, and it’s so perfectly out of his fantasies he’d barely dared to think  about  before now.  After a moment’s hesitation, Geralt wraps his arms around Regis and holds him just like Dettlaff’s currently holding him. Regis lets out a satisfied sound, his chest pressing more firmly against Geralt’s.

“Um,” Geralt says. He feels Dettlaff’s laughter rumble against his back. The man presses another kiss on his neck and tightens his grip.

“You’re not the only one feeling a bit overwhelmed, as it stands,” Regis says against his neck, his breath tickling the skin there. “We thought we were causing you distress because you didn’t feel the same way.”

Geralt shakes his head numbly. He’s still trying to understand what’s happening.

“I was the first one to voice my feelings towards you,” Regis continues, glancing at Geralt with a coy smile. “I found you extremely compelling right away. And then when we discussed it, Dettlaff told me he’s also feeling deeply unsettled by our new, handsome friend.”

The blush spreads, and Geralt manages an embarrassed laugh. Regis grins at him, but his eyes are soft.

“I’m not very good at this stuff,” Geralt says. “And I don’t want to cause you two any trouble.”

“You’re very considerate,” Dettlaff says. “But we talked about this, and we decided we’d let you come to either of us if you ended up feeling like you wanted to.”

“And now?” Geralt asks. Dettlaff’s nose remains pressed against his neck, and it’s extremely distracting.

“Now? I’m afraid we’re on foreign ground,” Dettlaff says calmly. “I can’t help feeling very happy, but maybe we need to lay down some rules.”

“I won’t come between you,” Geralt repeats. “I couldn’t live with myself if I did.” Even though it hurts, he knows it’s true. Regis and Dettlaff are a unit, and have been for a long time before he stumbled into their life. Geralt knows it’s not his place to ask for anything.

“You’re sweet,” Regis mumbles. He pushes himself upright and stares at Geralt. “But I think this could work.” Geralt sees him exchange a look with Dettlaff, and then the dark eyes find his again. “We’re both quite head over heels gone for you, at any rate. If you don’t want to choose, I don’t see why we should, either.” A soft smile spreads on Regis’ face as he utters the words, like he hardly dares to believe them himself.

“Have you ever…?” Geralt begins, trying to formulate a question he never thought he’d have to ask.

“Shared a lover?” Dettlaff finishes for him. Geralt feels his smile press against his neck. “No. But I don’t find anything distasteful about the idea, to be honest.”

Geralt realizes both of them are waiting for his assent. He sighs, sinking into the embrace, and tries to comprehend the turn his life is suddenly about to take. His heart is beating much too fast, but for once it doesn’t attempt to wrench itself free.

He lets his head fall back as he closes his eyes. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he finally says. “I haven’t even had a boyfriend in twenty years.” He opens his eyes and sees Regis’ surprised gaze. “Yeah, I’m not as straight as people like to think,” he continues with a weak laugh. “But as I said, I’m very likely to screw up a lot of stuff. If that doesn’t bother you...” He leaves the sentence hanging there, and then Regis’ hands return to his cheeks and the doctor kisses him deeply. Geralt gives in and finally buries his hands into the dark hair and revels in the happy sounds Regis makes as his tongue returns to brush against his.

A nd then  after a while he has to scramble around, because Dettlaff keeps grinning into his neck and peppering it with kisses until Geralt can’t take it anymore. Their kiss deepens, too, and Geralt is just about ready to expire out of sheer relief when Dettlaff pulls back.

“Are we being too forward?” he asks, pupils blown so wide his light blue irises are threatened to vanish altogether.

Geralt can’t really find his voice, but he shakes his head. He’s most likely smiling like a fool, because Dettlaff’s eyes light up when he pulls Geralt back down.

Ge ralt remains impressed they  eventually  manage to navigate their way into  the  bed room , seeing as he has managed to trip over  several times  with a single partner in his past.  He has some hazy memories of Regis voicing doubts about moving too quickly, and himself kissing the doctor silent immediately afterwards.

The urgency seems to abate when they reach the bedroom, Regis’ hands stilling where they have been roaming under Geralt’s shirt. Dettlaff pulls him against his chest, and the feeling of leaning on someone who’s taller than him for a change is overwhelmingly good and novel. He can feel every inch of them pressing against each other, and it’s glorious.

Regis looks at Geralt carefully, once more ensuring they are both on the same page about this, and then his hands push Geralt’s shirt up and off. Geralt sees his eyes widen when his eyes adjust to the dim light of the room and he takes in the mess that is Geralt’s body.

The thing is, maybe Geralt is picky with the people he sleeps with because that’s who he is, but maybe some part of it is also that he gets tired of seeing the horrified stares. Nothing kills the mood like his partner’s eyes tracking every scar and then asking how the hell is he even alive.

Geralt swallows. He should’ve warned them beforehand, told them he’s not much more than a human-shaped thing stitched together with good intentions and deep self-doubt.

Regis’ hands hover for a while, and Dettlaff hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. The moment stretches for an eternity, and then Dettlaff pulls Geralt back against his chest just as Regis surges in and kisses his way up Geralt’s chest to his neck.

Geralt struggles with Regis’ buttons much longer than feels decent, considering the fact that Dettlaff is kind enough to just chuck his own shirt at some point and press his naked chest against Geralt’s back as his hands explore everywhere he can reach. Geralt knows he has no hope of hiding how much the situation is turning him on, but he can feel something hard pressing against his ass, so maybe he’s not the only one. Then he finally gets Regis’ shirt off and pulls him closer, and as they collide Regis lets out a groan.

Geralt mouths along his jaw, and draws a shudder from him. Just then Dettlaff’s hands sneak beneath the waistband of the borrowed sweats, and when his nimble fingers brush against Geralt’s erection, he moans.

“You’re amazing,” Dettlaff breaths into his ear as Geralt is slowly driven insane by the light, exploratory touches. Regis grins wickedly at Dettlaff, whose deep and slow laughter is quickly becoming a major turn-on for Geralt.

Regis backs Geralt towards the bed just as he hears Dettlaff’s belt tinkle and the firm press is replaced by hot skin and a deliciously hard cock. Dettlaff slips away just as Geralt’s shins meet the mattress, and Regis guides him down.

Geralt ends up on his back with Dettlaff pressing impossibly close, his hands caressing Geralt softly. Geralt pulls him into another kiss, and Dettlaff’s tongue meets his with another satisfied sigh.

Geralt almost manages to keep his head together, but then Regis is back and leaning against him on the other side, his head coming to rest against Geralt’s thigh. Geralt looks down and Regis smiles at him, a broad, happy expression as he presses a kiss at the base of Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s free hand wounds itself into Regis’ hair, gently this time, and the doctor looks satisfied.

“May I?”he asks, his meaning very clear by the way he licks his lips almost nervously. Geralt nods, and as he lets Dettlaff take his breath away he’s aware of Regis rolling a condom on him and then he’s enveloped in wet heat, and dear gods it’s good.

Somehow Geralt manages to twist his left hand so that he can wrap it around Dettlaff. The man lets out a breath as Geralt starts to stroke him, slowly and lightly at first.

“This okay?” Geralt asks, trying to remember his manners despite feeling like Regis is currently sucking all sensible thought out of him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dettlaff murmurs against his lips, and then his eyes fall closed as Geralt thumbs at the head.

Geralt looses himself completely. He keeps stroking Dettlaff, they keep kissing with teeth and tongue, Regis works his clever mouth on him, and it threatens to drown him completely. Regis’ hands grip his hip, and Geralt strokes his hair away from his forehead when Dettlaff pulls away from the kiss to come up for air.

He’s never done this with two people at the same time, much less with two men whom he likes so much his heart feels ready to burst. Geralt keeps waiting for the bit when he wakes up, alone in his bed, but then Dettlaff buries his head into the crook of his neck and comes in almost violent spasms, and Geralt knows this is real.

Dettlaff’s release trickles through his fingers, and as the man sucks down on his neck hard and fast, Geralt feels himself slowly tip over the edge, all the feelings clashing together in a chaotic manner. He arches off the bed, and Regis lets him buck into his mouth without a protest. He lets out a sound when he comes down, something soft and happy, and it makes Regis crawl up the bed and kiss him, too.

Geralt pulls Regis on top of himself and grins against his mouth when he feels the hot brush of erection against his hip.

“Got any more of those condoms lying around?” he asks, his voice much lower than usual as he tries to catch his breath. Regis flashes him another wicked grin, the kind of which is rapidly becoming another favorite thing of Geralt’s, and reaches into the nightstand. He sits back and Geralt snatches the small package from his hands. He carefully rips it open and gives Regis a couple of long, luxurious strokes before rolling it in place.

Regis makes a move to lie down, but Geralt stops him by pulling him forward by hips. The second’s confusion is replaced by a look of pure arousal as Regis carefully positions himself above Geralt, and lets himself be guided into the waiting mouth.

It’s been more than twenty years since Geralt has given head to another guy, and he can immediately tell he maybe should have remedied the situation sooner; he’d be instantly hard, had he just not spilled his brains out. Regis balances above him, carefully thrusting into his mouth, and his eyes threaten to fall closed as Geralt sucks him gently, mindful of the teeth. He feels Dettlaff settle back against him and sees the long fingers splay over Regis’ hip, possessive and loving as his partner moves.

Geralt moves his hands to Regis’ ass and takes him in deeper, and gets a choked off moan as a reward. Dettlaff kisses Geralt’s neck, hands stroking both of them gently.

“You’re doing so well,” he purrs into Geralt’s ear, and holy hell, it’s almost too sexy. Dettlaff licks a long stripe up his neck before biting down again. Geralt groans against Regis’ cock, and the man above him _sobs_. Geralt hears Dettlaff laugh softly.

“He’s ready to come,” Dettlaff continues, and his hand brushes against Geralt’s cock which is most definitely trying to get in on the action again, even though he’d just…

“He looks gorgeous like this, and I can imagine anyone better to be with us.” Dettlaff continues, and then Geralt feels Regis come; he shudders violently, his hips twitching in an effort to prevent himself from pushing too deep into Geralt’s throat.

For a while Regis hangs there, trying to catch his breath, and then he half-crawls, half-collapses down and mostly on top of him. Geralt, who has always secretly loved cuddling after sex, is very on board with serving as a adult-sized pillow for both of them.

They lie there for a long while, Regis and Geralt still panting softly, and Dettlaff grasping Regis’ hand in his and resting them against Geralt’s chest. Finally Regis lifts his eyes and looks at them both.

“You are amazing,” he says, a breathy smile stretching his mouth. “Both of you.” He tugs Dettlaff close and kisses him, and Geralt’s heart clenches at how much they clearly love each other; they obviously know one another inside and out. Then Regis parts the kiss and kisses Geralt, too, and it’s too good; it’s gentle and adoring, and Regis keeps smiling the whole time. When he pulls back, Geralt feels his mind whir emptily.

“As far as I’m concerned, we’re not letting you go,” Regis says almost shyly and steals a glance at Dettlaff. The man laughs and rests his head on Geralt’s chest. His smile is warm and tender as his fingers come to cup Geralt’s face.

“No, I think not,” he agrees, and Geralt’s breath hitches. He knows they can hear it, feel it, but they let it go unnoticed. Regis pulls a comforter around them, and Geralt lets himself relax into the shared embrace. Sleep tugs at him, and usually he’d be trying to extract himself from the bed and leave when an encounter reaches this point, but now he’s content to lie there.

“I might have nightmares,” he mutters. He doesn’t _want_ to leave, but he has to be honest in this regard.

In the dark, he sees Regis turn to look at him, and he sees the doctor put two and two together. Geralt knows he must tell them about his past sometime soon, but maybe not today. There’s so much at risk when he does that, and he can’t bear to face it right after getting even a small part of what he thought was impossible.

“It’s alright,” Regis says gently. “Do you want to be woken up if you do?”

And just like that Regis makes it alright. The doctor has apparently guessed enough based on what Geralt had told them, and still he keeps holding Geralt close. Geralt continues expecting bad reactions, and instead receives care and warmth; it’s so odd he simply stares at Regis for a long while without finding an answer.

The doctor sighs. His free hand strokes Geralt’s cheek.

“It’s not a terribly hard leap of imagination to make, my dear. I’m asking because I care about you and want to avoid unpleasant situations.”

Geralt blinks and looks away. “Yeah, maybe don’t shake me awake or anything,” he mutters. He’s ashamed of having to warn his lovers off, but it’s for the best.

Dettlaff nuzzles his cheek. “It’s fine. We can talk about it later,” he says, and the deep baritone slips past Geralt’s nerves and calms him. He settles back into the pillows and pulls both men closer. Regis makes a delighted sound and sneaks a leg over his.

Geralt’s last thought is that this is by far the most comfortable he’s felt in a long, long while.

***

He wakes up in the small hours of the morning and sneaks into the bathroom. Regis and Dettlaff have a fancy night light in their bathroom, and in its soft glow everything seems two steps removed from reality. He’s all kinds of sticky and it doesn’t matter, but he does wash himself before returning to the bed.

Regis is sprawled on his back, dead to the world, but Dettlaff turns over when Geralt crawls back in.

“Did I wake you?” Geralt whispers.

Dettlaff shakes his head. “No. I’m a light sleeper,” he answers. Geralt lies down, and Dettlaff puts his hand on his shoulder. He gives it a small tug, and Geralt allows himself be pulled closer. He tucks his head under Dettlaff’s chin.

“Trouble sleeping?” Geralt asks, his own lids already feeling heavy again. He runs a hand along Dettlaff’s side, eliciting a happy sigh from him.

“Sometimes,” Dettlaff whispers, not elaborating.

The morning dawns on them slowly. Geralt wakes up before either of his companions, but he allows himself to doze and float in the half-awake world where nothing is troubling him for the time being. Regis is curled against his back, his arm around Geralt’s waist and snoring softly. Dettlaff sleeps on his back, his legs tangled up with Geralt’s. He looks younger when he’s asleep, Geralt muses in the back of his head once he manages to keep his eyes open for longer than a second.

He feels Regis wake up some time after that. There’s apparently a moment’s confusion, because the doctor makes a soft, uncertain grunt before relaxing back into the mattress again.

Geralt rolls over and meets Regis’ sleepy eyes. He hesitates for a second and then winds his arm around Regis’ waist. It’s apparently the right thing to do, because Regis smiles and snuggles closer.

“Good morning,” he says in a sleep-thick voice.

“Morning.”

Geralt feels shuffling behind him, and then Dettlaff throws an arm around him.

“Can’t you two sleep until a decent hour?” he mutters, pressing his face into Geralt’s neck.

“Poor Dettlaff,” Regis smiles. “He prefers sleeping in.”

Dettlaff makes an unintelligible grumbling noise in response. It’s unbelievably endearing. Geralt chuckles.

“If it’s any consolation, I am actually able to sleep late, too. It just doesn’t happen in unfamiliar places,” he says. Dettlaff makes another noise against the back of his neck, his hot breath sending a shiver down Geralt’s back.

“You’re warm. I’m sure the rest of your transgressions can be forgiven for that,” he says in a sleep-rough voice.

Regis grins at Geralt. “Maybe we could get to see that someday?” he asks, and Geralt hears the question behind the masked lightness.

_What are we going to do now?_

Geralt sighs. Regis senses the shift in the mood and reaches his hand into Geralt’s hair. There’s a moment of silence, and Geralt tries to decide how to proceed. He’s fairly certain they could just stay on the friends with benefits level, if needed. They have become close, and if Geralt tells them he doesn’t want to do more than this, it might be okay. He’d get to be with them, and he wouldn’t have to worry so much about his own feelings bleeding through.

But then Geralt looks into Regis’ dark eyes and sees only patience and a careful smile, and he feels something give. Dettlaff loosens his hold when Geralt rolls on his back before sitting up. There’s a faint trace of worry in Regis face, but Geralt brushes his hand against his.

“You know I’m ex-military,” Geralt begins without any preamble. He crosses his legs and addresses the duvet. Regis sits up and scoots closer. Dettlaff leans his head on his hand. Geralt sees him frown.

“That’s the truth, but not all of it.”Geralt glances at both of them, making sure both of them are listening. He can only say this once.

“I’m an ex-soldier from a special operations branch that was disbanded right when I had to decide whether I could take Ciri.” It all comes out in one long breath. He draws in another to continue. “We didn’t exist, officially. We spent many years flung from one war zone to another, wherever a tight unit of trained commandos were needed.”

Regis draws in a breath. “Those men in the photograph-” he says, and Geralt nods.

“They were in it, too. We were recruited very early. Only guys with no family, preferably with no close ties at all.”

Geralt fiddles with the duvet. “It was the first real family I’ve had, but it was pretty messed up. I’ve probably done every horrible thing civilians can think of when they hear the words ‘special operations.’”

“Why did you leave the army?” Dettlaff asks as he sits up. Geralt looks him in the eye, and it’s hard to find the words when he knows he might lose this, right when he got a taste of how good things could be if he was a decent human being.

“Because we were forced to mark an orphanage on our last mission,” Geralt says and looks away. “We had intel it was being used as a cover for terrorist activity. We found nothing, but our troop leader – not the guy in the picture, but the one we got after he died – told us to go through.” He draws in a breath. He has never told anyone all this before. Even Yen didn’t know the messiest details.

“They bombed the whole district down, and afterwards there was fuck all to indicate there had ever been anything but normal people in there,” Geralt finishes. For a second, he smells dust and smoke, and then the flashback eases like shards of glass being poured through his chest.

“It was such a major screw up that our unit was dispersed and we were given the choice to continue as normal soldiers or to fuck off. We were on thin ice as it was, and I couldn’t go on, so when I got the call about Ciri, I just packed my bags without any kind of a plan.”

Regis strokes his back, and Dettlaff’s eyes pierce Geralt. There’s a long silence, and then Geralt can’t handle it any longer. He looks from Regis to Dettlaff, his heart in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier,” he rasps. “I’m a poor fucking excuse of a human being, but I just couldn’t-” His voice catches and he looks down again. He feels like he will either faint or hurl, or maybe both.

Regis leans closer and presses a soft kiss on Geralt’s shoulder before resting his head there.

“Thank you for telling us,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats, because he is; for all those people, and for Regis and Dettlaff. He’s sorry for a lot of things, and there’s nothing he can do to ever make it right.

“I’ll go,” he says quietly, but when he tries to get up, Regis hangs onto him.

“Why?” he asks, and if Geralt didn’t know better he’d call the voice scared.

Geralt blinks. “I’m guessing you don’t want anything to do with people like me,” he says.

“Stop guessing, then,” Dettlaff says. The man takes Geralt’s hand and studies it for a while before speaking. “You’re not the only one who has done things they regret.”

Geralt scoffs. “Being stupid when you’re young hardly counts against causing the death of sixty-eight people.” He knows the numbers by heart. He’d dug through the files before they kicked him out for good.

“Still,” Regis says. “We’ve gotten to know you as you are now, and _that_ is the person we like. Very much,” he adds as an afterthought, and Dettlaff gives his partner a crooked smile.

“Perhaps I need to clarify my statement,” Dettlaff continues when Geralt can’t find any words of his own. “Neither of us is in any way flawless. We both have our own secrets that cause us shame to this day.”

“You don’t need to tell me, if you don’t want to,” Geralt says. “I only wanted to give you the full details before-” he cuts himself off there, because he can’t just say it. He can’t tell them how much he wants to just _stay_ and fall in love with them. It’s so improbable he just tries to resign himself to the eventual crash and burn.

Unfortunately, he has picked the exactly wrong men to fall in bed with for them to ignore anything he says.

“Before?” Regis asks and Geralt can hear he’s smiling.

Geralt shrugs. He’s still feeling awful. “Anything. I told you how I feel. Doesn’t mean you have to do anything about it.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” Dettlaff says thoughtfully. He sneaks closer and one warm hand sweeps up Geralt’s naked back and buries itself into his hair. “And I believe we told you how we feel, in turn.”

“I’m not expecting-” Geralt begins, but Regis cuts him off with a kiss. It’s a short press of lips, but it leaves him feeling warm all over.

“I know,” Regis says. “And Dettlaff knows. As he said, this is new ground for us, too. The best we can do is be honest and see how it turns out, yes?”

“Okay,” Geralt says, stunned. “Okay,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard himself right the first time.

“I’d like to see where this takes us,” Regis continues. “I know myself well enough to see I’m not merely infatuated with you.” He pauses and looks at Dettlaff. “And I still love you, just so you know,” he adds and gets a fond smile and an eye roll in response.

“That goes without saying,” Dettlaff answers. He looks at Geralt. “You are not coming between us, like you fear. But I would like you to be with us.” He looks at Regis, who nods eagerly.

“With you?” Geralt repeats. Dettlaff’s hand is stroking his hair, and he wants to close his eyes and commit everything into his sensory memory.

“Yes,” Dettlaff says with a faint smile. “I don’t do casual, as you might have surmised by now.”

And it’s true. Geralt has gotten to know both of them, and while Regis seems like the type to enjoy one-night stands, Dettlaff is nothing if not intense in everything he does. It makes perfect sense.

“I’d like that,” Geralt says, and the words leave him almost reeling. It’s scary, even if it’s more than he ever hoped for. “And I’m gonna apologize already now for screwing stuff up. I’m a crap partner-” His sentence gets cut short by Regis pressing yet another kiss on his lips, this time with a hint of teeth. When he pulls back, his expression is fiercely protective.

“Whoever told you that is clearly mistaken,” he says in a low voice. “You need to let that go.”

Instead of even trying to formulate an answer to that, Geralt surges forward and kisses Regis again. The doctor climbs on top of him and they fall backwards in a heap. When they finally part, Geralt immediately seeks out Dettlaff, because he is allowed to kiss them both, and that leaves his head full of what feels like sparkling lights.

“That thing you did yesterday, talking to me,” Geralt finally pants, “that was amazing.”

To his surprise, Dettlaff looks down and a hint of blush colors his cheeks. Regis lets out a delighted peal of laughter from where he’s currently laying on top of Geralt.

“It’s…something I’ve picked up from Regis, actually,” Dettlaff says quietly, glancing up at Regis. The doctor caresses his partner’s cheek.

“I have a, uh, habit of making my desires known without leaving much room for doubt,” Regis articulates carefully. His gaze sweeps over them both. A hot rush flows through Geralt when his brain puts two and two together.

“You’re a dom?” he asks Regis, whose eyes flash with heat and delight.

“I knew you were a bright one,” Regis purrs as he swoops down to nuzzle Geralt’s neck. “Perhaps we can work with that.” He licks and nips at Geralt’s throat, and Geralt whines, the smooth voice and the touches already driving him mad.

“You seem to know something about the topic,” Dettlaff says conversationally, but his hand is drifting towards Geralt’s crotch, the touch ghosting over hot skin.

Geralt forces his eyes open, because Regis is currently obliterating his sensible brain with his teeth and tongue.

“Yeah,” he breathes, shivering when Regis moves on to his collarbones. “I’ve always liked it.”

Regis draws back and considers him. “This is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he says quietly, the voice thick with enjoyment before dropping into a husky whisper. “And I have a good guess as to what role you might like the most.”

Regis’ hand cups Geralt’s head and holds him in place as he teases him further. Geralt pants, trying to pull away and Regis preventing it, his eyes gleeful.

“Am I right, Geralt?” Regis asks. “Tell us what you like.”

Geralt draws in a breath and tries to swallow. Dettlaff chooses that exact moment to wrap his fingers around his cock which is straining against his thigh, and he lets out a whimper. It seems to please Regis.

“Talk to me, Geralt,” Regis says in a voice that is downright filthy.

Geralt swallows, just as Dettlaff’s fingers brush against his balls. “I like being told what to do,” he says as he looks at Regis, and then to Dettlaff. “I like it rough.” He should be mortified at being so undone, but it’s been so long since he had managed to trust anyone enough to play. Yen stopped domming him when their trust started to fray, and there has been no one since.

Dettlaff smirks as he leans down and thrusts his tongue inside Geralt’s mouth with a rough kiss. Geralt fists a hand into the dark hair, drawing a breathy moan from him. The fingers around his cock give him a tight squeeze.

“You are lovely,” Dettlaff says in a rough voice. “I’d love to give you anything you think to ask for.” He kisses Geralt again, and together with Regis’ wandering hands and mouth it’s almost too much.

“Wanna fuck me?” Geralt asks, not directing his words to either one of them specifically, because he knows he’d love to be filled right now and it doesn’t matter which one he gets first. It’s been years, and he still remembers how damn good it feels.

Regis’ face glows with excitement as he glances at Dettlaff. The black-haired man swallows, hard, and then he crawls like some prowling beast to the foot of the bed.

“I’ll fuck you later,” Regis promises Geralt in soft tones. “Right now, I’d love to watch Dettlaff prep you. He’s half out of his mind with lust, as you can see.” Regis’ voice is dark as his hand lands on Geralt’s hip.

Dettlaff retrieves the lube from the nightstand and settles comfortably between Geralt’s legs. He looks up when he senses Geralt watching him.

“Are you sure?” he asks in a rough voice.

Geralt answers by canting his hips up. Regis takes the moment to push a pillow under his hips, leaving him open and vulnerable. Dettlaff chuckles and kisses Geralt’s thigh as his long fingers start to circle Geralt’s entrance, slick with lube.

Regis watches them closely, and when Dettlaff finally pushes inside and makes Geralt groan, he draws in a breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. He kisses Geralt, whose all willpower not to start pushing back against those slow-moving fingers is crumbling like a sandcastle engulfed by waves.

“We can take this slow,” Regis continues as his hands sweep slowly up and down Geralt’s chest. “There is a lot about each other we will need to get familiar with, and we can enjoy it all together. And because it seems all three of us like to play, we can expand on that.”

Regis kisses Geralt again; demanding and gentle at the same time, and right then Dettlaff pushes another finger in. Geralt keens as his hips twitch.

Dettlaff smiles at him, his free hand massaging Geralt’s thigh. “Everything okay?”

Geralt struggles to swallow. “Yeah. You’re really good,” he gets out.

“I take it you have done this before?” Dettlaff asks.

“A long time ago, but yeah.”

“I like doing this,” Dettlaff says as he takes in everything in front of him. “To you,” he adds, and the blush is back, and it’s making Geralt’s heart squeeze.

Regis leans over his partner and presses a short kiss on his lips before whispering something in his ear. Dettlaff’s cheeks color some more, and Geralt is dying to know what was being said, but right then a third finger joins the other two and the stretch and the pressure make him whine again.

“Come on,” Geralt pants. “I want you in.”

He’s treated to the sight of Regis retrieving another condom and then rolling it on his partner slowly and teasingly, all the while kissing Dettlaff’s neck and shoulder. They lean on each other easily, and Geralt catches himself wishing he’d get to be a piece of that puzzle in the future. A rush of something adoring goes through him, and then it settles as a pleasant background hum when Dettlaff’s eyes find his. He looks at Geralt with an expression that doesn’t have a name, yet.

Dettlaff leans over him and positions himself. Regis stretches back down, flush against Geralt’s side.

“Tease him a bit,” Regis murmurs to Dettlaff just as his nimble fingers take a loose grip of Geralt’s cock. “He wants you badly, and you need to know that, too.”

Dettlaff pushes in slowly, only a little. His head dips down as he lets out a broken breath. Geralt slowly relaxes around him and his hand reaches for Dettlaff’s. The man takes it with no hesitation before continuing to push in. Only when he is fully inside does he lift his eyes, and there’s so much to see in his face.

Geralt sees the bright eyes, and how the furrowed brows frame them in an almost desperate expression; he sees the lips, dry and parted as he draws in a breath after breath, and it’s so much; it’s such a vulnerable face Geralt can’t even begin to think about what it means. Dettlaff blinks several times and then he starts moving very slowly.

“Geralt.” His whisper is ragged, and Regis lets out a breathy sound at that. Geralt tries to find his tongue, but Dettlaff’s cock is brushing against his prostate _just so_ , and his brain is becoming a nest of fireworks.

“Gods” he gasps instead of spilling everything that has been brewing inside him. Regis chuckles, leaning down to kiss him again.

“Do you like how he feels, Geralt?” he asks. “Do you like how he moves?”

“Yes,” Geralt gasps. “Yes.”

“Tell him how he feels,” Regis whispers to him. “Tell him how you feel.”

Regis is taking care of them both, Geralt sees it in perfect clarity then; Regis knows how uncertain Geralt is, and how much Dettlaff needs to hear this is something unique, and he’s doing his best to provide them both with what they need in this moment of intimacy.

Regis’ hand around Geralt’s cock tightens, and he chokes back a moan before doing his best to pull his wits together.

“Come here,” Geralt gasps. Dettlaff’s movement slows as he leans down, and Geralt drags him down for a messy kiss. Dettlaff stills completely when their tongues tangle together.

“This means something,” Geralt chokes out against his lips. “Both of you do.”

Dettlaff’s breath hitches and then he starts moving harder and faster. He holds Geralt’s gaze for a long time, until Regis rises up to kiss him.

“I love you. It’s okay, you can feel this, it’s alright, I feel it too.” Geralt catches some of the words exchanged, but he’s drifting quickly towards his peak with Regis’ hand still working him, and when the two men part and look at him he simply gives up all his pretense that he’s in any way in control of the situation. His gut tightens as he feels the release begin, and then he’s buried under a wave of sheer feeling and his eyes close on their own accord.

With ringing ears, Geralt slowly regains his senses. He tries to make sense of it. Dettlaff is lying on top of him, still buried deep inside him. His hands are gripping Geralt’s shoulders and his face is hidden, tucked into the crook of Geralt’s neck. Hot breaths brush against his skin, and Geralt buries his hand into the black hair and presses a kiss to Dettlaff’s temple.

When he looks up he sees Regis. He has a hand in front of his mouth, and Geralt sees how hard he is trying to maintain some veneer of composure. All Geralt can do is reach out his hand and pull him closer. Regis slumps down with no resistance and lies down against Geralt’s side.

“What do you need?” Geralt asks in a hoarse voice.

Regis looks up at that. His eyes crinkle with a smile. “Both of you, at the moment,” he says before laying back down. He snuggles close, and even though it’s a bit awkward Geralt doesn’t feel a need to squirm. He’s content to lie there and hold on to both of them.

***

Regis presses a cup of coffee into Geralt’s hands and kisses his temple before sitting down with a mug of his own. He looks calm as he lets his legs tangle with both of theirs under the table. Geralt sips the coffee and shifts in his seat slightly.

“Are you alright?” Dettlaff asks softly around the rim of his cup. His clear eyes seem careful and open at the same time.

“I’m okay,” Geralt chuckles. “Been a while, is all.”

An easy silence follows his words. They drink their coffee and Geralt watches the mid-morning sun creep across the floorboards. Regis’ knee is pressed against his, and Dettlaff keeps stealing glances at his face. His mind is quiet and calmly expectant.

Regis is the one to break the silence, never one to sit in silence for too long.

“Do you want to be with us?” he asks. It’s so simple, and yet the words carry so much weight now that they’re all sitting around the table and the morning sunlight is bathing them in golden hues. After all they’ve done it’s the only question left.

“If you’re sure you wanna do this,” Geralt answers. He looks down until Regis takes his hand. When he finally meets their eyes his stomach makes a funny little twist. He’s nervous.

Regis casts a glance at Dettlaff, who is smiling slightly, his eyes downcast. When he finally looks up and straight at Geralt, his face is honest.

“I’m falling in love with you,” Dettlaff says, and Geralt feels all air leave his lungs. He simply stares at Dettlaff until the man looks down again. The blush is creeping back on his cheeks. “I just wanted to be honest with you. Both of you,” he says in a much quieter tone as his eyes find his partner’s. Regis draws him closer and kisses his hair. Geralt sees he’s smiling.

“Your capacity of loving is something I keep admiring,” Geralt hears Regis say before the doctor turns back to him. The almost-black eyes are gentle.

“I know this is something special,” Regis says slowly. “I’d like you to stay.”

“I’m here,” Geralt says in answer.

And maybe it’s that simple, at least to begin something. His eyes flicker between Regis’ and Dettlaff’s, and in the soft light it all seems possible. Geralt wanted to stay, and now it’s asked of him. There’s a shadow of uncertainty in his head, but he ignores it in favor of accepting what is offered. For once, believing in something improbable feels like the sensible thing to do.

“I’ll stay.”


End file.
